


Secrets We Keep

by 99bottlestogo (darkside213)



Series: Pendragon Life [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Eventual F/F, F/F, First Love, Friendship, Growing Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 218,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkside213/pseuds/99bottlestogo
Summary: Sequel to Into the Fire. After the end of last year, Jamie Pendragon is wary for what the future will bring. With talks of Voldemort, Harry Potter's supposed insanity, and the ever looming question of what you want to do in the future, Jamie is stressed. The fifth year of Hogwarts is a year of change, that will bring extreme happiness and sorrow. Join Jamie, and the gang as they journey into secrets...





	1. Mischief Made

**Author's Note:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana. 
> 
> Note: If you are looking at this story for the F/F pairing, yes it is here. I would suggest starting at the beginning of the series though, since the stories naturally build off each other. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

I look on the fifth year of my life at Hogwarts with such mixed emotions. Such happiness came my way, yet there was the undercurrent of danger and despair that always ran close to the surface. Sometimes I still can’t believe that I survived the year with people thinking that we were crazy. I still can’t grasp how he handled it all the time. Some secrets are far more valuable than others, as they can hold the fate of a person in the balance.

 

Chapter 1- Mischief Made

 

“He’ll never know what hit him.” I declare softly, grinning at the vile of dark liquid that George brandishes in his hand proudly. Fred snickers coming over to us from the far side of the room, with a quill in his hand.

“We tested it fresh a few minutes ago. This will be by far our greatest weapon against the git to date.” Fred declares, not too loudly. Ginny’s leg is bouncing in excited anticipation. We’ve been planning this prank for the better part of a week, and it always is sweet when a plan comes together.

“Brilliant! I can’t wait to see the look on his face. The git deserves it for tearing up the centerfold of my magazine. I wasn’t being that loud.” Ginny pouts, thinking about her Wizarding Music Magazine that Percy demolished early today.

“Well you were squealing rather loudly.” I say still remembering how high pitched her voice was. I’m surprised that the glass didn’t break in the living room. Ginny narrows her eyes at me, and sticks out her tongue in retaliation.

“Enough you two. As much as I’d like to see the two of you tumble, now is not the time. We still have to get this baby in his room, switching it for the real one.” George tells us with a serious look on his face. I roll my eyes at him, and zip up my black hoodie, and roll my shoulders trying to relieve the tension in them.

“Jamie, you’re the sneakiest of the lot of us. You’ve managed to run around with your group in ol’ Hogwarts without getting caught, so this should be a piece of cake.” Fred says with a sly grin on his face. I scowl at the boy and swipe the vile from George.

“You just want me to go and do it, for Molly won’t punish me as harshly as she would you.” I say. The twins shoot me matching goofy grins, and Ginny just raises her eyebrow as if to agree. I sigh and look down at the bottle of ink in my hand.

“Fine, but if I get caught, you guys so owe me.” I declare, before pulling the hood up over my head, and pulling the door of Fred and George’s room open slowly. I’ve been living with the Weasley’s for long enough now that I know what doors squeal, and which floorboards creak.

I creep out into the hall slowly, glancing back only once at the trio of redheads that give me an encouraging thumbs up in return. With a quiet huff, I turn and start down the short hallway towards the door that most people have been avoiding in the house for the past few weeks.

I carefully dance around the annoyingly creaky board that just happens to be in the exact center of the hallway, and is always loud enough to signal to anyone who is awake, that someone is up and about in the hallway. Huh, maybe some of those formal dancing skills weren’t such a waste after all. I make it to my destination and look at the door that houses my target. Neat block letters spell out PERCY’S ROOM: DO NOT DISTURB— THAT MEANS YOU FRED AND GEORGE!!!

I can’t help but grin remembering the day that Percy designed that specific sign. After complaining to Arthur and Molly about Fred and George’s incessant pranks on him, he decided to take matters into his own hands to warn them off before, he brought up more complaints against them. I can’t help but roll my eyes just like I had back then.

Like a freakin sign is going to keep them from messing with him, or even me. People still seem to forget that I am almost as responsible for the pranks that go on around here as the twins are. This is something that Luka is very disappointed in me for, but I can’t really help it.

Slowly I twist the knob on the door, making sure to go extra slowly for Percy’s door has the great misfortune of being especially squeaky. As soon as the door is open wide enough for me to slip through, I quietly suck in a breath before sliding into Percy’s room.

The first thing that meets me is the loud sawing snore of Percy’s. He sounds almost as the demon hell hound Fluffy when it was asleep. I swear its eerie the similarities between them. I shake my head to rid myself of the distractions, and slowly creep into the darkened room. Thank Merlin he finally went to bed. I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be able to wait for him to fall asleep.

I silently make my way over to his desk, and fumble around to find his precious inkpot. Finally after a minute of desperate scrambling, I manage to find it. With a quiet sigh, I place down the fake pot right in place of the old one. I turn quickly and make my way out of Percy’s room, slowly pulling the door closed behind me.

I let the tension seep from my body now that the hard part is over. Knowing that going back to Fred and George’s room would put myself in at a higher risk of detection, I make my way to my room, which is much closer. I’m almost at the door when the worst happens.

“Jamie dear, are you all right? You shouldn’t be up at such an hour.” Molly says worriedly standing near the door to their bedroom on this hall.

“I— I’m fine Molly… just can’t sleep y’know, nightmares…” I say sheepishly not exactly lying to her. I have been having nightmares, I just only haven’t had them tonight since I have yet to be to bed yet. Mrs. Weasley’s slightly suspicious face dissolves into one of sadness and worry.

“Oh Jamie… I know you have had a rough few years. Frankly everyone has had a go of it, but you know that you can come to me when you can’t sleep right?” She asks. I open my mouth to speak, but find that I can’t actually reply to her in words.

I nod my head, and she smiles at me softly. “Get some sleep dear. I know that it is summer, but you should still get some rest.” With that she disappears back into her room. I let out a shaky breath, and open the door to my room, and close it behind me.

I hear shifting from the lower bunk, and I know that Ginny is waiting impatiently to hear what happened. I make my way across the small room over to the desk that the two of us share. I carefully set the inkpot down, thankful that I had finally gotten the layout of the room memorized.

“Did you do it?” Ginny whispers, finally giving in to the need to ask her dire question. I cock an eyebrow though I know she cannot see me in this light. I make it over to the ladder, and climb it groaning in satisfaction as I lay down on the bed.

“Of course I did? You doubt me?” I ask her teasingly. A loud huff comes from below and I chuckle to myself.

“You know, you really are the worst sometimes.” She states. I smirk hearing the pout in her voice.

“Come on then, let’s get some sleep. I reckon we’re going to need it for tomorrow.” I tell her, getting underneath my covers, and shifting around a little to get comfortable.

“Just so we’re agreed Fred and George take the blame for this if we’re caught right?” Ginny says after a moment. I can’t help but snicker at that yet again. And Luka says that I have the devious mind.

“Only if you want them to come after you with some of their new and improved pranks, you will.” I say closing my eyes, and allowing the gentle creaks, groans, and the banging of the ghoul to lull me to sleep. I haven’t felt this at peace in a long time. It probably won’t last that long.

* * *

 

The next morning comes fast, and I feel like I barely laid my head down on the pillow when the explosively loud voice of Molly comes from below, “BREAKFAST!”

I hit my head on the ceiling groaning to myself, as I rub, what will surely be a red spot on my forehead later. “There’s a ceiling there.” Ginny yawns, as she stumbles out of bed, tripping over her blanket, sending her tumbling to the floor.

“There’s a floor there.” I return grumpily.

We both get dressed for the day still half asleep, and stumble down the stairs to the kitchen, where the boys are already busily inhaling food like they were starved last night. Molly only smiles at us, as she puts down more plates that she had filled for us, and kept out of the range of the boys endless stomachs. Breakfast was a quiet affair that got even quieter when Percy came down the stairs with a grumpy look on his face.

He didn’t even thank his mum for the food that she saved him. Fred and George shoot me concealed questioning looks. I dip my head slightly in conformation that I had indeed gotten the inkpots switched. Once the table was cleared away, Molly shooed us out of the kitchen so that she could have some time to herself. Part of me wonders if she knows that something is on around here.

Fred and George vanish upstairs to work some more on their business plans, which are slowly starting to come together. I will most likely end up joining them at sometime today, but I need a break. Luka disappears upstairs after muttering something about needing to write a letter. I of course tease him mercilessly about a certain little blond haired French girl that he’s pen pals with.

Ron snorts at him, and goes outside to the broom shed to try and fly around a little to get more practice in. There will be an entirely new Quidditch team this year since Oliver Wood is no longer the captain of the team. I’m curious to see who’s going to be the new one this year. I can’t wait to get back on the pitch and in the air. Going a whole school year without playing once was far too long for my liking. Ginny follows closely behind Ron, and I grimace not wanting to be near them for the fight that will undeniably ensue.

So I make my way to the other shed that we’re told to go into only at our own risk. I know that its Arthur’s shed where he tinkers with all his muggle items, trying to figure out how to make them work. I hadn’t been inside the shop since coming to live here, so I decide that I’m long overdue a visit.

I push open the door, and my entrance is heralded by a loud rusted metallic creak. Arthur’s head pops up from his workbench at the far end of the shed, and he smiles brightly at me. “Morning Jamie! Did you sleep better? Molly told me that you were having trouble last night.” He greets me slightly worried. I smile at him softly in return, running my eyes along all the oddly shaped objects, which are boldly covered, and plastered with words on them.

“I slept fine last night… must have been a fluke. Sometimes my mind just needs to shut down a little more before I attempt sleep. Did you figure out how all this works yet?” I ask him curiously coming to a stop in front of him. A bright smile spreads across his face.

“Yes, yes in fact I did! Look here Jamie this is called a Vaccuous cleaner. Since muggles do not have the ability to magic away dirt and dust the way that we do, they must invent a contraption to assist them in the act. Using Elektricity they are able to create air and suction through this nozzle down this long tube. Its all rather genius. Observe!” He cries.

He reaches over, and flicks some sort of switch on the boxy end of the machine. A loud vroom noise starts up from the contraption making me jump. The long circular end attached to a nozzle starts flailing about wildly. I laugh in surprise at the unexpected result.

“That’s wild!” I exclaim. Arthur reaches out and wrestles with the wriggling end, finally getting it under control and holding it out to me.

“Put your hand up to it!” He urges. Tentatively I stick my hand out to the nozzle, and instantly my hand is sucked to the machine, and I let out a loud giggle at the tickling sensation racing over my palm. After a minute of that he turns the machine off.

“Its brilliant isn’t it, the ingenuity of the muggle mind, they deserve so much more credit than we ever give them.” He tells me. I nod my head, running my fingers over my palm. I move around the shop running my hands over the various machines, picking some of them up, and messing with it, before some of the pieces come apart. This goes on for about an hour, us both existing in a comfortable silence, before Arthur clears his throat.

“So Jamie, have you given any thought to what you want to do when you finish with Hogwarts yet? Since your fifth year is coming up the O.W.L.S will be around the corner.” He says broaching the subject with me that I’m most confused about. I bite down on my lip worriedly, not exactly sure how to respond to him.

“I dunno… Harry and Ron really want to become Aurors, and Hermione seriously wants to get into the Ministry along with Luka. I’m not exactly sure what I want to do… the only subjects I really enjoy is school are Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts.” I say somewhat sheepishly. I am smart, but school isn’t the most thrilling of places for me.

I’ve been slowly realizing that the longer and higher up that I get. I feel guilty though, for I’m a Pendragon and I should be highly educated, and helping give instruction to the rest of Wizarding kind. That has always been Luka more than me though.

Arthur gives me a long look over the top of his glasses. The look is so paternal and understanding that it makes me squirm a little. “Not all people enjoy school a great deal Jamie. Just look and Fred and George, those two are so smart, but their future lies beyond what academics can grant them.” He tells me. I raise my eyebrows in shock. I thought that the Weasleys wanted them to go into the Ministry.

“Y-you don’t want them to follow in your steps?” I ask him shocked. Arthur chuckles at me and places the screwdriver down onto the bench.

“I have a Curse Breaker son, a dragon keeper son, and Percy who is working in the Ministry. I don’t need any of my children to go into a job because they think that they need to please me. Molly just wants what’s best for all of her children.” He says giving me a knowing look. I blush at his implication that I’m their child.

“I-I don’t know… I don’t really see the point in some of the classes. Divination is just a bunch of dragon dung. She doesn’t really see anything… I do really like Charms though…” I say. Arthur smiles at me and comes over to my spot at the workbench.

“You seem rather good with those hands of yours. You don’t even know what some of these machines are yet you’re able to put them back together. Have you ever thought about going into a job where you can work with your hands?” He asks me. I raise my eyebrows at that possibility.

“That’s a job?” I ask bewildered. Arthur lets out an amused laugh.

“Yes I do remember them focusing on higher opportunity jobs at Hogwarts even when I was back in school. Jamie there are a world of opportunities out there, not just the main high demand jobs in the Wizarding World. You can contribute in your own way, nothing in your life is decided for you except what you decide to do yourself.” I look at him for a long moment before throwing my arms around him, and giving him one of the tightest hugs that I can manage.

“Thank you.” I whisper. He squeezes me back tightly, and holds me for a few minutes.

“You’re an amazing girl Jamie Pendragon. I can’t wait to see what you make of yourself, no matter what it is though, I’ll be extremely proud of you.” I break into a grin, and turn back to the so called toaster oven in front of me.

“You’re pretty amazing yourself…” 

* * *

 

The view of the surrounding countryside is vast and beautiful from here. Here being the roof at the very top of the Burrow. Why are we here you may ask, well that is a simple answer my friend. A few hours after I leave Arthur’s shed I go to find a very stressed out Fred and George. With nothing better to do we decide to test out one of the newer spells that we’ve come up with.

It’s a super elasticity potion we spread it in a large square on the ground on the far side of the house from the kitchen so that Molly won’t see us. Hopefully. “Well come on then, try it out!” Ginny exclaims a wide grin on her face. We all must have a crazy glint in our eyes, for we call our encouragement.

George holds up the inkpot that I had stolen from Percy’s room with a solemn look on his face. “Oh brave inkpot we wish you the best of luck our fallen friend.” We all salute, and crowd the edge, to watch him drop the pot. Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, and I watch entranced. The pot speeds down to what looks like its sure demise, before rebounding off the ground, and rocketing back up to us at high speed.

Fred grabs the pot, with a wicked cackle. “I’ll be a spotted Hippogriff! We did it!” He cries. We all exchange high fives, and grin wildly at the unassuming ground. Fred casually turns around and drop Percy’s inkpot on the other side of the roof, and I watch with a chuckle as it shatters, spreading an inky black spot.

“Looks like Percy’s out of ink.” I say simply. Fred smirks, and we return to the others.

“Okay who’s first?” Ron questions uneasily. I glance down at the ground again. It is my potion, so I guess I should go first.

“I created it, I’ll test it.” I say simply hoping that they don’t see my nerves. They all give me wide-eyed looks.

“Best of luck. Aim well, no need for a broken neck, and mum killing us.” George chuckles halfheartedly.

“Don’t you dare die Jamie, I don’t need the other half of my room that badly.” Ginny says. I give them all a small smile, before taking a small jump over the edge before I can talk myself out of it. The air whistles around me, as I plummet four stories to the ground. I screw my eyes closed as the ground approaches, the impact is not hard more springy. I stay put for a second, before I’m shot back up like a rocket. I fly a little higher than the roof, but I angle myself to fall behind them, and I land with a thud. I groan in a little pain.

Okay we definitely need to pad the landing sight.

“Jamie!”

“Jamie!”

“Jame!”

“Wicked Jamie!”

Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron crowd around me, and pull me to my feet. The world spins for a second, before I’m able to right myself.

“So… how was it?” Fred asks. After a second I grin wickedly at them.

“Oh you’ve got to try that! We just need to pad the landing up here. Try it, it is amazing!” I cry. Joyous laughter, and high fives are exchanged. Pillow are gotten and laid out for the landing, and everyone takes turns on the plummet of a lifetime. By the time everyone has gone three times, our hair is permanently windblown. Its Ron’s turn to go down again, and with a cocky smirk, he jumps high, and clutches his legs to his chest like he’s going to do a cannon ball. We watch as he drops like a rock, and fires back up with the speed of a cannon.

Before he can land though, he’s suspended in midair before being lowered back to the ground. “RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?” Molly’s roar is heard all the way up here on the roof. The four of us up here freeze in fear.

“It’s fine mum! We were totally safe! We tested it out before we even bothered doing it ourselves!” Ron cries defending us and our actions. She looks up at the roof sharply, and sees the four of our heads, before we can pull back.

“YOU FOUR BETTER GET DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT! YOU GUYS ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE!” She hollers. Without even thinking about what I’m doing I step off the roof, and plummet to the ground. Molly gives a shriek of fear, and I hit the ground, before I can bounce up again though, she has me out by magic.

“Oh Merlin! Jamie dear, are you okay. Good grief, you scared me half to death!” She exclaims running her hands all over me with a terrified expression on her face. I instantly feel bad for making her worry about me, but there’s nothing that I can do about it now.

“I’m fine Mrs— Molly.” I say correcting myself. She sighs relieved, and pulls me in for a suffocating hug.

“Hey! How come Jamie didn’t get yelled at? That’s not fair!” Ron cries from beside us. Molly turns around on him and glares at him.

“I’d be very careful about what I’d be saying Ronald.” Ron gulps, and snaps his mouth shut. She turns to look up at the rest of them, but they’re already gone, most likely running to find the best hiding spot. Somehow I feel that it’s going to go worse for them for fleeing. With a growl Molly leads us back into the house, and Ron and I share a look. Yep, we’re in so much trouble.

* * *

That night at dinner is another silence. Arthur looks at all of us confusedly for he didn’t know what happened today. Molly had hunted down the twins and Ginny and had given them garden duty for the rest of the summer. Ron and I were to clean the living room every night before we went to bed, which trust me is a huge chore in of itself.

Percy’s hair is unkempt, and his left eye is twitching crazily every few seconds. Throughout the day you could here yells of anger and frustration, with lots of cursing coming from his room. Our guess is that our ink worked on him. “Percy dear… are you okay? You were awfully upset today.” Molly says carefully.

Percy turns his gaze to his mum and it’s the crazed gaze of a man who’s snapped. “Every time I tried to write my reports for work, the ink would disappear. Sometimes it would stay for a few minutes before fading, but no matter what I did it would still vanish and I would be stuck writing it over again!” Percy bursts. Fred and George can’t help it, they burst out into guffaws of laughter. Percy narrows his eyes at them.

“You… I’M GOING TO KILL YOU! I WASTED A WHOLE DAY OF WORK BECAUSE OF YOU!” He roars throwing himself across the table. Food is thrown everywhere, and the twins jump up running for safety, with Percy scrambling after him.

“Come now Percy it was just a joke!” George cries.

“Yes no need to cry over spilled ink!” Fred laughs. Ginny and I are snickering together, as Ron laughs, and Luka looks on in fond amusement. Even Arthur is laughing. The only one who looks upset is Molly. Her gaze is locked on Ginny and I, and my grin slowly fades.

“We’re screwed.” I say softly, and Ginny nods her head in agreement. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted we had a good run.


	2. You Want Us to Live Where?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 2- You Want Us to Live Where?

 

  _“Daniel can you just stop for a second? This is not how we should be going about this. These are our friends that you’re talking about!” A woman cries. There’s a loud bang and I jump startled and upset. “Daniel the children!” She reprimands._

_“They’re asleep Alexis. Luka could sleep through a rampaging ogre, and Jamie has a slight fever. They’re down for the count.” A man says, and the anger is still taut in his voice._

_“The Order is still a viable option. It was a war Daniel, of course people were going to be injured… and the betrayals hurt me just as much as they did you.” Alexis says calmly._

_“Half of the Order is dead, and one of them is a traitorous scoundrel. The Order couldn’t even protect themselves from a kitten. No… we have to go on our own.” Daniel says firmly._

_“I hope that you’ll reconsider that decision Daniel, grief is a powerful motivator in uncertain times. I myself know that all too well.” A third voice comes, and it is soft and old. I shuffle forward, and blink my bleary eyes to see a man who looks like father Christmas in the kitchen with my mum and dad._

_“You made the trip for nothing Dumbledore, my mind is made up.” Daniel says firmly. A scoff comes from Alexis._

_“You can’t make all our decisions alone Daniel. I for one want to hear him out. I’m sorry Professor, you’d think that after being at Hogwarts for all those years that he’d learn to trust your judgment.” Alexis says giving Daniel a pointed look._

_“I understand the position that you’re in Alexis, a mother’s love for her children is not to be taken lightly, and it looks like you have a sick charge.” Dumbledore says gesturing to where I’m half concealed. Alexis’ eyes widen and she spins around to see me._

_“Jamie, baby… you’re supposed to be getting some sleep, you’re not feeling well…” She trails off scooping me up into her arms, and carrying me out of the kitchen._

With a gasp I startle awake in my borrowed bed. My heart is slightly racing, and I rub my hands over my eyes with a groan. Light is barely beginning to stream in through from the bottom of the curtains. So it is around dawn. I throw my sheets back, and slide out of the bed. Soft breathing greets me from the two other girls in the room.

I glance at Ginny and then Hermione briefly. That’s right; Hermione came to stay with us a few days ago. It was a welcome addition since I really wasn’t happy about having to leave our home. Instead we’re in a dreary row house, that’s dark, dismal, and looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for twenty years. The reason we had to leave was because the Burrow was deemed not secure enough.

The reason security even mattered was because the Order of the Phoenix had been started up again, for Lord Voldemort has got his body back. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of him walking around alive, when my parents, Harry’s parents, and Ariana’s parents are dead in the ground. It seems like karma just spit in our faces on that one didn’t it?

One of the worst parts of living here though, is that I don’t know exactly how to act around the owner of the house. Sirius Black offered up his family home for the order since no one else lives there anymore. Its not like I don’t like the man, its just that I still get a little jumpy around him because of third year. Harry thinks that I should just get over myself but that’s pretty hard to let go of.

I sigh resigning myself to the fact that I’m not going to get a goodnight sleep here until we leave for school. I never thought that I’d look forward to be going back to school so much before. I lay back down on the bed outside of the sheets. At least I get to see my parents some more now, even if the memories aren’t pleasant ones. My eyes begin to water as I think of how I’m really starting to look like my mum. Yeah definitely no more sleep for me.

* * *

Later on that morning after breakfast, and everyone disperses across the house to do their own thing (mainly hiding from Molly for she wants to clean the house top to bottom). I’m still sat at the long galley table staring down at the cup of tea in my hands. I’m so focused on my own thoughts that I don’t even realize that someone has sat down across from me.

“You’re looking into the bottom of that thing like it’s got the answers to all the world’s problems.” The slightly scratchy voice of Sirius Black startles me from my thoughts. I pride in myself that I didn’t jump like I was sorely tempted to do.

“Dunno… interesting cup is all.” I say blithely. Sirius snorts looking over the plain white china cup.

“Very. That’s not what I’m here about. There’s something you and me need to talk about Pendragon.” He says seriously, and I snort at the stupid pun in my head.

“Oh?” I say raising my eyebrow at him. I still can hear the scathing words of my father echoing in my head, knowing that he was referring to the very man sitting in front of me.

“I happen to know someone aquatinted with you. Augustus.” Sirius let’s the name sit there for a while. I stiffen and grasp the cup in my hands tighter at the name. Just when I thought that this day couldn’t get any worse for me.

“What about him?” I demand. Sirius licks his chapped lips, and pushes some of his long stringy hair out of his face.

“I had a cell near his in… in A-Azkeban. I didn’t mention it any before ‘cause we never got a chance to be alone. That bloke though— he’s definitely one piece of work. Its like the guy didn’t have a sanity in the first place to lose. I always wondered why someone would be happy to be a Slytherin…” He says trailing off. I grimace at the though of Augustus really being that insane.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask him my voice shaking slightly. Sirius sighs, and shakes his head.

“Molly and Arthur don’t want me telling you all this, but I feel like you have the right to know since it involves you personally. One of Augustus’ favorite rants was about how he was going to get out of there one day, and finish what he started all those years ago. He didn’t call you and your brother very nice names. Seems to think that he is doing the Pendragon family name a service by cleaning it of all the ‘impure’ blood. Personally any blood of his that he has with Bellatrix would be a travesty to the world.” Sirius tells me.

I swallow hard, and set my abandoned cup of tea down on the table. “He’s not going to get out though… that would be near impossible.” I exclaim. Sirius gives me a level look gesturing to himself. “You’re an animagus that doesn’t count.” I counter.

“You forget that he has very powerful friends on the outside that would like nothing more than to help set him free. Voldemort has come back Jamie; he will start assembling his followers sooner or later. I feel that you should be ready for Augustus when that happens. I will be saying the exact same thing to Harry when he arrives here, in a few days.” Sirius states firmly.

I blanch at the knowledge that the prison is now not as secure as I thought that it was. There is hardly anything between the murderer of my family, and me. “That is enough now Sirius.” Arthur’s voice breaks through my panic. I spin around to see him and Molly standing at the entrance of the kitchen.

“Why don’t you go upstairs Jamie? I’ll be up in a few minutes to check on you. I’m sure that the kids will find something to occupy you.” Molly tells me, but her gaze is stuck on Sirius instead of me. I slip off the bench and walk over the Weasleys on shaky legs. Molly rubs my shoulder as I pass her, and I duck out of the entryway once I’m out of the kitchen so that I can listen in.

“We had an agreement Sirius. We were not going to mention Augustus in anyway to Jamie and Luka. Those kids have been through so much as it is. I will not put them through anymore trauma until it is necessary.” Molly says sharply. I hear a low growl come from Sirius.

“You can’t coddle those kids Molly. Their life has never been one of leisure and happiness. You’re not their parents! If you want them to live long enough to have a future, then you will start preparing them. Look what happened to Daniel and Alexis! Even the greatest amount of planning and preparation couldn’t stop that psychopath once he had them in his sight!” Sirius cries.

I start shaking in my hiding spot very much reminded of my dream this morning. “They are just kids. They should have childhoods for the longest time possible, and you wrong Sirius, Luka and Jamie are my children so I’d appreciate it if you’d mind our choices of how to deal with them. You did more damage to a girl who can already hardly sleep without nightmares, so that’s for us to deal with now.” She snaps.

“We may not have say in what you do with Harry, but we will try our hardest to put those poor kids first.” Arthur says with a surprising steel edge to his voice. Unable to hear anymore, I race up the stairs to the second floor in search of something to get my mind off of what I just heard.

* * *

 

That night I’m lying under the covers in my bed staring up at the dark ceiling in the room that the girls were given. That means that this room is one of the cleanliest in the house. Today has been a real kicker of a day. Sometimes I wonder why I even bothered to crawl out of the bed this morning. Ginny and Hermione are awake still, breathing quietly in beds on either side of mine.

I can tell that they’re worried about me because they were casting me worried looks all afternoon and this night. I don’t know exactly what to tell them though, to make this any better. After what feels like an hour of just laying there in silence, Ginny breaks it.

“Do you think that Harry’s doing okay? We haven’t heard much from him this summer. I hope that the Dursley’s are treating him okay.” Ginny says worriedly. I arch my eyebrow, and Hermione snorts from my other side.

“Aw Ginny… I didn’t know that your crush on Harry was still going on! That’s so sweet and adorable!” Hermione squeals. Ginny groans exasperatedly.

“I do not have a crush on Harry still! I merely care about your guys’ friend! There is nothing wrong with that Hermione. You four always seem to be getting into all sorts of trouble. I have to make sure that you all stay safe some way.” She huffs. I snort into the dark.

“She totally still has a crush.” I comment.

“Jamie!” Ginny whines, as Hermione laughs.

“See never take anything by face value around here!” Hermione says victoriously. I feel a faint smile cross my face at what they’re both trying to do. This is why I love my friends so much, they would embarrass themselves just to try and make me feel better.

“What about you and Ron? I see the way that you two argue like an old married couple with each other. Could you be any more obvious?” I counter Hermione. If there was any sort of light in this room her cheeks would have been bright red I guarantee it.

“We do not! And I don’t care anything for Ron! He’s just infuriating that’s all!” Hermione blusters.

“Uh huh…” Ginny says disbelievingly. I chuckle a little bit.

“Ugh, anyway at least we’re not as bad as you Jamie!” Hermione cries. I freeze in my bed wondering what the heck that she could be talking about. “Oh come on! You can’t still be that oblivious!” Hermione cries, and Ginny chuckles. I scowl at them even though I know they can’t see it.

“Whatever guys, whatever. I’m going to bed so goodnight gossips.” I say, rolling over onto my side to fake sleep. After a while Hermione and Ginny calm down, and a half hour later they’re breathing evenly, and I let out a quiet, relieved breath. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful that they tried to make me feel better, but I’m not sure if anything is going to make me feel better at the moment.

After a few more minutes, the first of my silent tears roll down my cheeks. My life was going great, and then reality had to come back and give me a nice old kick to the head. I think that the universe is telling me to stay down for once. I try to will the tears away, as I wile away the time until I’m supposed to be awake again.

* * *

The next afternoon Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Luka, and I are all playing a giant game of Exploding Snap. Unfortunately I’m not paying too much attention to the game. It’s a good thing that everyone else is taking pity on my preoccupied state, and helping keep me from any singed eyebrows. I’m feeling a little better today. After a few more sleepless hours, I had gotten up and actually went to bother Molly.

She had jolted awake worriedly, and tutted when she saw that I was still awake, and hadn’t slept yet. She took me down to the kitchen to prepare a sleeping tonic for me. She didn’t want me to become too reliant on these though. It worked like a charm, and I feel much more energized than I had in a long time. Suddenly there’s hot breath against my cheek.

“So, did you miss me Pendragon?” A slightly deep voice whispers. I jump in my seat startled before turning to look at Ariana. My mouth drops open slightly as I take in the Dumbledore for the first time this summer. Her bright brown eyes are sparkling animatedly, though there’s a hard core to them now. Her honey blond hair has lighter highlights in it showing that she had been outside in the sun a lot this summer.

The thing that chokes me up the most though is the fact that she’s obviously grown a lot over the time since I saw her last. She’s much curvier than the end of last year, and her tee shirt is a little— oh god. An amused chuckle draws me out of my stupor.   “Yes Ariana I missed you very much.” She says. I blush hotly at being caught staring.

“Hey Ariana. When did you get here?” I ask clearing my suddenly dry throat. She grins at me, before leaning back in the seat next to me.

“Only a few minutes ago. Grandfather dropped me off for an Order meeting is going on today, and he wanted to get here early to prepare. Besides, I wanted to get a feel of the place where I’ll be staying until school starts.” Ariana tells me. I manage to choke on the air that I had been breathing at that.

“W-what? Y-you’re staying here?” I demand breathlessly. Ariana’s smile widens, seemingly enjoying my flailing about.

“Yep, grandfather is going to be very busy until school starts, so he won’t be able to check up on me as much. Mrs. Weasley was kind enough to offer to keep an eye on me. So I guess that we’re going to be rooming together for a while.” She smirks. I quickly advert my gaze to my lap, trying to get my control back.

I seriously wasn’t expecting for her to be here right now. If I was I would be so much better than now. “Well that’s good. You get in too much trouble when left alone for too long. Your grandfather’s library can attest to that.” I recover with a chuckle. Ariana blushes lightly, and shoots me a sheepish grin.

“What can I say, I thought that building a pyramid of books would be more entertaining than actually reading them.” She states blithely.

“Well we for one are thrilled to have you here Ariana. We could use some more girls around here anyway.” Hermione says with a wide knowing grin. I steadfastly refuse to acknowledge her.

“Join us Dumbledore but don’t expect us to go easy on you just cause you’re famous and all.” Fred says seriously shuffling the playing deck. Ariana smirks at him and shifts a little closer to me.

“You’ll need all the luck you can get Weasley.” She challenges. Just like that we’re all playing a very animated game ,which ends in Ron having to have one of his eyebrows grown back, and a sulking Fred who was thoroughly beaten by one very smug Dumbledore. 

* * *

 

Fred, George, and I are all hunched over the desk in the room that they boys are sharing. The device in our hands has the potential to be brilliant. I can’t wait to get a chance to try these out. “I think it has to be the best invention yet.” I say with a grin. George snorts.

“I’m rather fond of the Puking Pastilles myself.” George murmurs fondly. Fred tweaks the last of changes and smiles happily.

“Nothing is quite like the Canary Crèmes though.” He chuckles.

“DINNER!” Molly’s shout echoes up the stairs, and the thundering of four set of feet start down the stairs. I glance at the twins who have wicked grins on their face.

“Ready for another go Jamie?” Fred asks me. I nod my head hesitantly, and he loops his arm thought mine, before the world twists around me, and I’m yanked by my bellybutton into darkness. Seconds later I appear with him with a loud crack next to Molly with George appearing on her other side. She jumps with a small yell, and glares at her sons with a deadly look on her face.

“Would you two stop apparating with Jamie! You could splinch her for Merlin’s sake!” She cries, and as soon as the world stops spinning a little, I give her a grin, and scurry off with the boys to the kitchen. I plop down a little breathless next to Ariana.

“Well someone looks like they had fun.” She says with a grin. I roll my eyes at her and Luka sits down on her other side.

Arthur, Sirius, Molly, and Professor Dumbledore file into the kitchen and sit down, so that everyone can start eating. It is a much more festive and raucous meal, and I find myself smiling the whole time, laughing at argument between Hermione, Ron, and Luka, and staring a mini food war with the twins, Ginny, and Ariana. Suddenly an owl swoops overhead, and drops a letter in front of Dumbledore, which he catches.

We all watch him open the letter with wary silence. Whenever mail comes to the house now, its almost always cause for worry. Slowly Dumbledore lowers the paper, and looks at all of us with a worried silent fury. “That was the Ministry. As of this afternoon Harry Potter has been expelled from Hogwarts.”

Instantly all the joy is sucked out of the room, and I am sucking in air like I had been sucker punched. See what I mean about things never staying good for long?

 


	3. Prodigal Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 3- Prodigal Harry

 

So operation Obtain Harry Potter at all costs, was put into affect late the next afternoon. Information was streaming into the headquarters faster than mail at Hogwarts in the mornings. The whole group was shocked to learn that Harry had broken the under aged wizarding magic law. Fred and George were actually shocked that they weren’t the ones to have broken that law first.

No one expected Harry to ever jeopardize his chance of Hogwarts like that. The Weasleys, Hermione, Luka, Ariana, and I are all sitting around the living room in stony silence. Sirius is pacing in the middle of the room furiously. He was less than happy when Dumbledore refused to let him go and get Harry, and then disappeared himself.

“Don’t worry. Grandfather won’t allow this to happen. It was obviously in self defense.” Ariana speaks up suddenly, trying to relax the group as a whole. A team of Order Members had been sent out to Little Whinging to get Harry and bring him back here. The members included the real Mad-Eye Moody, Emmeline Vance, a cool metamorphagus named Tonks, and surprisingly Kingsley.

I was not expecting that to happen one bit, I was not expecting to see Kingsley again, mainly because I have been avoiding him every time he has had to come to headquarters. So I was kind of in a not so great mood because of that. “Its quite ridiculous that they would have expelled him in the first place. Muggles can’t see a patronus charm and they can’t see a dementor at all…” Hermione rants quietly.

Ron gives her a wary look, knowing as well as I do that she could blow at any moment. Suddenly Remus Lupin steps into the living room and gives us all a pained look. “The Order is convening. You’re needed.” He says directing his statement to Sirius, Arthur, and Molly. Sirius follows him immediately with Arthur trailing after them.

Molly turns her gaze on the eight of us kids in the room. She levels us all with a scary glare. “All right you lot, upstairs you go! Official Order business just like usual!” She states, making a shooing motion at us. I roll my eyes at the fact that we’re being treated like kids yet again when we’re all too old for our years.

“Ah Mum! Come on!” Fred whines.

“Yeah we’re of age!” George complains. Molly’s gaze turns icier at the mention that they’re legally adults now.

“As long as you are students at Hogwarts and living under my roof, there will be no joining of the Order for you!” She growls ferociously. With a glare George grabs my arm in his and I don’t have time to groan before I’m pulled by my belly button again, and the world rights itself with a loud pop in the boys room, with Fred a second behind us. Well I guess that I’m becoming a captive.

“I can’t believe that woman! We’re seventeen now… of age!” George growls, throwing himself down on his bed in a huff.

“She’s a bloody hypocrite she is! She’s in the Order and helping fight back, but she won’t even let us do the same! I know for a fact that Bill is apart of this being the eyes and ears inside of Gringotts.” Fred hisses, glaring down at our newest invention.

I bite my lip not looking at either of the boys. I’m conflicted on this subject. Voldemort is out there and he has caused unbelievable pain to almost everyone that I know, including me, so I want to be a part of taking him down. The other part of me though understands the worry that Molly holds for her kids, and now Luka and me. She doesn’t want us dragged into this inevitable war any sooner than we have to be.

“You’ll be involved soon enough, then I’m sure that you’ll make a huge difference in the Order.” I tell them hoping to get the smiles back onto the twins’ faces. I don’t know what I’d ever do if even one of them stopped joking around or smiling. That’s the day when I’ll know that hope has truly started to run out.

“Save the platitudes Jamie.” George says dejectedly. I sigh, and slump down on top of Luka’s steamer trunk. I mope around with the twins a little while longer until I hear the front door open and shut.

“Sorry boys, but I have a friend to console.” I tell them regretfully getting to my feet and leaving the room for the one across the hall. I slip through the doorway closing the door behind me to get a closer look at my morose friends. Ron and Hermione look like they’ve been contemplating what school this year will look like without Harry.

I can’t even begin to think about it, it’s such a horrible thought. “Where are Luka and Ariana?” I ask them quietly. Hermione spares me a glance from her hand wringing.

“The library. They thought it would be best if they researched legal help of other under aged wizarding cases for Harry.” She tells me. I nod my head agreeing silently that that’s something that the two of them would do.

“Why can’t he bloody well hurry up?” Ron grumbles making yet another lap in his pacing. Before anyone can say anything else though, the door opens. I didn’t have to look at the person to know that Harry was standing in the doorway. Hermione’s ear piercing shriek was enough to tell me that alone.

She flat out runs at the poor boy tackling him into a crushing hug that nearly levels him to the ground. “HARRY! Ron, he’s here, Harry’s here! We didn’t hear you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless — but we couldn’t tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn’t, oh, we’ve got so much to tell you, and you’ve got to tell us — the dementors! When we heard — and that Ministry hearing — it’s just outrageous, I’ve looked it all up, they can’t expel you, they just can’t, there’s provision in the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations —”

I’m surprised that she hasn’t turned blue yet, for Hermione has yet to take a breath in her babbling.

“Let him breathe, Hermione,” says Ron, grinning, closing the door behind Harry. With a sheepish glow to her cheeks Hermione lets go of our friend. Whereas Ron has let his hair grow out to be longer over the summer, Harry has gotten a haircut, making his features seem much sharper. His green eyes look wary and tired from behind his circular glasses.

“Hey Boy Wonder. I’m glad that you were able to join the party. Not too much trouble getting here right?” I ask him with a small grin leaning against a dresser. Harry turns to me, and gives me a small grin in response.

“Nothing like the trip to Hogwarts in second year Jamie, so I’m not complaining.” Harry says with a slight chuckle. I shiver violently thinking about that evil flying contraption that tried to kill us all. I don’t know how muggles can stand riding around in such things.

Suddenly a white owl swooshes down from her high perch and lands on Harry’s shoulder. He smiles affectionately at the bird. “Hedwig!” Harry says happily.

The snowy owl clicks her beak and nibbles his ear affectionately as Harry strokes her feathers.

“She’s been in a right state,” says Ron. “Pecked us half to death when she brought your last letters, look at this —”

He shows Harry the index finger of his right hand, which sports a half-healed but clearly deep cut.

“Oh yeah,” Harry says. “Sorry about that, but I wanted answers, you know . . .”

“We wanted to give them to you, mate,” says Ron. “Hermione was going spare, she kept saying you’d do something stupid if you were stuck all on your own without news, but Dumbledore made us —”

“— swear not to tell me,” says Harry. “Yeah, Hermione’s already said.” I heave an irritated sigh.

“Sorry mate, I would have sent Di if I could but Molly has a tight leash on all of us these days. There’s been more than a few blow out fights going on here over the past week or so.” I tell him giving Harry a sheepish shrug.

I notice the change of mood in Harry and steel myself for a less than happy Potter. I hate it when he gets into these moods he’s near insufferable when they come about.

“He seemed to think it was best,” says Hermione rather breathlessly. “Dumbledore, I mean.”

“Right,” says Harry. I see that he notices that her hands too bear the marks of Hedwig’s beak he doesn’t look all that upset though.

“I think he thought you were safest with the Muggles —” Ron begins.

“Yeah?” says Harry, raising his eyebrows. “Have either of you been attacked by dementors this summer?”

“Well, no — but that’s why he’s had people from the Order of the Phoenix tailing you all the time —” I say trying to explain the situation to Harry.

“Didn’t work that well, though, did it?” says Harry, doing his utmost to keep his voice even. “Had to look after myself after all, didn’t I?”

“He was so angry,” says Hermione in an almost awestruck voice. “Dumbledore. We saw him. When he found out Mundungus had left before his shift had ended. He was scary.”

“Well, I’m glad he left,” Harry says coldly. “If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have done magic and Dumbledore would probably have left me at Privet Drive all summer.”

“Aren’t you . . . aren’t you worried about the Ministry of Magic hearing?” questions Hermione quietly. I watch the situation quietly waiting to see if I will have to intervene soon. I understand how frustrating all of this must be for Harry, but he can’t let it get the best of him.

Great now I’m starting to act like Molly, she has been working with me a lot over this summer about controlling my anger. Hopefully it will help somewhat, but I’m not too confident that it will help once I get back to school and the people who push my buttons the most.

“No.” Harry lies defiantly. “So why’s Dumbledore been so keen to keep me in the dark?” Harry asked, still trying hard to keep his voice casual. “Did you — er — bother to ask him at all?”

Ron, Hermione, and I share a quick look wondering exactly how much to tell Harry about everything that’s been going on around here where he’s concerned. Harry glares at the three of us looking none too happy.

“We told Dumbledore we wanted to tell you what was going on,” says Ron. “We did, mate. But he’s really busy now, we’ve only seen him twice since we came here and he didn’t have much time, he just made us swear not to tell you important stuff when we wrote, he said the owls might be intercepted —”

“He could still’ve kept me informed if he’d wanted to,” Harry says shortly. “You’re not telling me he doesn’t know ways to send messages without owls.”

Hermione glances at Ron and then says, “I thought that too. But he didn’t want you to know anything.”

“Maybe he thinks I can’t be trusted,” says Harry, watching our expressions.

“Don’t be thick,” says Ron, looking highly disconcerted.

“Or that I can’t take care of myself —”

“Of course he doesn’t think that!” says Hermione anxiously.

“So how come I have to stay at the Dursleys’ while you two get to join in everything that’s going on here?” says Harry, the words tumbling over one another in a rush, his voice growing louder with every word. “How come you two are allowed to know everything that’s going on — ?”

“We’re not!” Ron interrupts. “Mum won’t let us near the meetings, she says we’re too young —” But before we know it, Harry is shouting.

“SO YOU HAVEN’T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG DEAL! YOU’VE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN’T YOU? YOU’VE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, I’VE BEEN STUCK AT THE DURSLEYS’ FOR A MONTH! AND I’VE HANDLED MORE THAN YOU THREE’VE EVER MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT — WHO SAVED THE SORCERER’S STONE? WHO GOT RID OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOUR SKINS FROM THE DEMENTORS?”

That’s it.

“WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME!”

Ron is standing there with his mouth half-open, clearly stunned and at a loss for anything to say, while Hermione looks on the verge of tears.

“BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME WHAT’S BEEN HAPPENING?”

“Harry, we wanted to tell you, we really did —” Hermione begins.

“CAN’T’VE WANTED TO THAT MUCH, CAN YOU, OR YOU’D HAVE SENT ME AN OWL, BUT DUMBLEDORE MADE YOU SWEAR —”

“Well, he did —”

“FOUR WEEKS I’VE BEEN STUCK IN PRIVET DRIVE, NICKING PAPERS OUT OF BINS TO TRY AND FIND OUT WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON —”

“We wanted to —”

“I SUPPOSE YOU’VE BEEN HAVING A REAL LAUGH, HAVEN’T YOU, ALL HOLED UP HERE TOGETHER —”

“No, honest —”

“Harry, we’re really sorry!” says Hermione desperately, her eyes now sparkling with tears. “You’re absolutely right, Harry — I’d be furious if it was me!” I glare at the panting boy whose cheeks are now tinted red in anger.

“You know what Harry you’re one of the most ungrateful people that I know. Let’s be honest shall we. You would have been dead if it wasn’t for us back in first year. We’d all be in a world of trouble right now. You have no right to talk to us this way. We’ve been doing everything we can to help you out, but there is only so much that we can do!”

“I get that you’re angry, and I get that it’s incredibly unfair, but there’s nothing that you or I can do about it. The only reason that we were here is because we happen to live with people in the order. Don’t forget that I’m as much an orphan as you are. Yes I live with people who actually do care for me, but that does not change the fact that me parent were murdered, and that their killer is still alive, and working for your parents’ murderer!”

“I care for you Harry, I truly do, but its times like this when I really can’t stand to be your friend. Come find me when you get your head out of your arse!” I growl, throwing open the door, and storming down the hall. Of all the things for him to do he had to go and be a giant git the first thing back. Boys I swear can never see the greater picture.

“Um you might want to take some deep breaths there Jame.” Luka’s hesitant voice finally breaks through my irritated fog. I snap my gaze and see my brother’s worried face a few feet away from me. I glance down slowly at my left hand to find it clenched into a fist, and the same strange blue fire was around it.

I flinch when warm hands hold my cheeks and bring my gaze to pools of brown. “Follow me Jamie. Deep calm breaths, I’m surprised that you managed to last that long with the way he was laying into the three of you. Everyone upstairs could hear his tirade. He best hope that Mrs. Weasley didn’t hear him downstairs.” Ariana titters lightly.

I slowly change my ragged breathing to match hers, and soon all the pent up energy is gone from my body. I sag slightly, and bring up my left hand to touch hers on my cheek. It is no longer encased in fire so that’s a good thing in my book. “Its scary how whipped she’s got you Jame.” Luka says baffled. I shoot him a glare pulling out of the young Dumbledore’s grasp.

“Do you think you’re calm enough to go back and face your friends?” Ariana asks me ignoring Luka all together. I let out a long breath of air, and try to take stock of my still slightly frayed nerves.

“Fine as long as I don’t have to talk to him.” I mutter. Ariana beams at me, and she and Luka scramble to pick up the few heavy books that they had been reading from and lead me back into the room where Harry is with Hermione and Ron. They look much like they had when I had left them.

“Hey there Harry. Ariana and I have been looking up cases like yours for a few hours now, and I think that you have a fairly good chance at fighting back. There are a few defenses that past kids have used…” Luka says trailing off seeing the look that everyone is giving him. He shuts the book with a snap, and nervously pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Hello Luka.” Harry says stiffly still looking quite perturbed.

“Glad you’re safe Harry. I know your friends were worried about you.” Ariana tells him leaning back against the doorway, eyeing him coolly. Harry shifts his weight slightly, and shrugs his shoulders.

“So what have you guys been doing, if you’re not allowed in meetings?” Harry demands picking back up. “You said you’d been busy.”

“We have,” says Hermione quickly. “We’ve been decontaminating this house, it’s been empty for ages and stuff’s been breeding in here. We’ve managed to clean out the kitchen, most of the bedrooms, and I think we’re doing the drawing room tomo — AARGH!”

With two loud cracks, Fred and George materialize out of thin air in the middle of the room. Pigwidgeon twitters more wildly than ever and zooms off to join Hedwig on top of the wardrobe.

“Stop doing that!” Hermione says weakly to the twins, who are as vividly red-haired as Ron, though stockier and slightly shorter.

“Hello, Harry,” says George, beaming at him. “We thought we heard your dulcet tones.”

“You don’t want to bottle up your anger like that, Harry, let it all out,” says Fred, also beaming. “There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn’t hear you.”

I snort at that, and shoot the twins thankful looks. They always know how to diffuse a situation, and I’m glad for that.

“You two passed your Apparation tests, then?” asks Harry grumpily.

“With distinction,” says Fred, who is holding what looks like a piece of very long, flesh-colored string. Cool we’re finally going to test it!

“It would have taken you about thirty seconds longer to walk down the stairs,” says Ron.

“Time is Galleons, little brother,” says Fred. “Anyway, Harry, you’re interfering with reception. Extendable Ears,” he adds in response to Harry’s raised eyebrows, holding up the string, which we now see is trailing out onto the landing. “We’re trying to hear what’s going on downstairs.”

“You want to be careful,” says Ron, staring at the ear. “If Mum sees one of them again . . .”

“It’s worth the risk, that’s a major meeting they’re having,” says Fred.

The door opens and a long mane of red hair appears. “Oh hello, Harry!” Ginny says brightly. “I thought I heard your voice.”

Turning to Fred and George she says, “It’s no go with the Extendable Ears, she’s gone and put an Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door.”

“How d’you know?” demands George, looking crestfallen.

“Tonks told me how to find out,” explains Ginny. “You just chuck stuff at the door and if it can’t make contact the door’s been Imperturbed. I’ve been flicking Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they just soar away from it, so there’s no way the Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap.”

Fred heaves a deep sigh. “Shame. I really fancied finding out what old Snape’s been up to.”

“Snape?” says Harry quickly. “Is he here?”

“Of course that’s all you care about.” I mutter darkly.

“Yeah,” says George, carefully closing the door and sitting down on one of the beds; Fred and Ginny follow. “Giving a report. Top secret.”

“Git,” says Fred idly.

“He’s on our side now,” says Hermione reprovingly.

Ron snorts. “Doesn’t stop him being a git. The way he looks at us when he sees us . . .”

“Bill doesn’t like him either,” says Ginny, as though that settles the matter.

“Is Bill here?” he asks. “I thought he was working in Egypt.”

“He applied for a desk job so he could come home and work for the Order,” says Fred. “He says he misses the tombs, but,” he smirks, “there are compensations . . .”

“What d’you mean?”

“Remember old Fleur Delacour?” says George. “She’s got a job at Gringotts to eemprove ’er Eeenglish —”

“— and Bill’s been giving her a lot of private lessons,” sniggers Fred.

“A lot.” I say making a face at the time I caught them making out.

“Charlie’s in the Order too,” says George, “but he’s still in Romania, Dumbledore wants as many foreign wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie’s trying to make contacts on his days off.”

“Couldn’t Percy do that?” Harry asks. The last he had heard, the third Weasley brother was working in the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry of Magic. At those words everyone in the room besides Harry darkens, and glares at various spots around the room.

This is another sore spot to cover. Things have drastically changed since the beginning of this summer. “That git.” Luka growls. Harry raises his eyebrow in shock but everyone else is used to how angry the usually mild mannered Luka is about Percy.

“Whatever you do, don’t mention Percy in front of Mum and Dad,” Ron tells Harry in a tense voice.

“Why not?”

“Because every time Percy’s name’s mentioned, Dad breaks whatever he’s holding and Mum starts crying,” Fred says.

“It’s been awful,” says Ginny sadly. I grab her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, but I’m with her on the whole its been awful scale.

“I think we’re well shut of him,” says George with an uncharacteristically ugly look on his face.

“What’s happened?” Harry demands getting irritated again.

“Percy and Dad had a row,” says Fred. “I’ve never seen Dad row with anyone like that. It’s normally Mum who shouts . . .”

“It was a few weeks into summer break. We were about to come into the Order. Percy came home and told us he’d been promoted.” Ron explains

“You’re kidding?” says Harry. I nod my head darkly in agreement.

“Yeah, we were all surprised,” says George, “because Percy got into a load of trouble about Crouch, there was an inquiry and everything. They said Percy ought to have realized Crouch was off his rocker and informed a superior. But you know Percy, Crouch left him in charge, he wasn’t going to complain . . .”

“So how come they promoted him?”

“That’s exactly what we wondered,” says Ron, who seemed very keen to keep normal conversation going now that Harry has stopped yelling. “He came home really pleased with himself — even more pleased than usual if you can imagine that — and told Dad he’d been offered a position in Fudge’s own office. A really good one for someone only a year out of Hogwarts — Junior Assistant to the Minister. He expected Dad to be all impressed, I think.”

“Only Arthur wasn’t,” I pitch in grimly.

“Why not?” says Harry.

“Well, apparently Fudge has been storming round the Ministry checking that nobody’s having any contact with Dumbledore,” says George.

“Dumbledore’s name’s mud with the Ministry these days, see,” says Fred. “They all think he’s just making trouble saying You-Know-Who’s back.”

“Dad says Fudge has made it clear that anyone who’s in league with Dumbledore can clear out their desks,” says George.

“Trouble is, Fudge suspects Dad, he knows he’s friendly with Dumbledore, and he’s always thought Dad’s a bit of a weirdo because of his Muggle obsession —”

“But what’s this got to do with Percy?” asks Harry, confused.

“I’m coming to that. Dad reckons Fudge only wants Percy in his office because he wants to use him to spy on the family — and Dumbledore.” Harry lets out a low whistle.

“Bet Percy loved that.” Ron laughs in a hollow sort of way.

“He went completely berserk. He said — well, he said loads of terrible stuff. He said he’s been having to struggle against Dad’s lousy reputation ever since he joined the Ministry and that Dad’s got no ambition and that’s why we’ve always been — you know — not had a lot of money, I mean —”

“What?” says Harry in disbelief, as Ginny makes a noise like an angry cat. I growl under my breath as well, and Ariana bumps shoulders with me.

“I know,” says Ron in a low voice. “And it got worse. He said Dad was an idiot to run around with Dumbledore, that Dumbledore was heading for big trouble and Dad was going to go down with him, and that he — Percy — knew where his loyalty lay and it was with the Ministry. And if Mum and Dad were going to become traitors to the Ministry he was going to make sure everyone knew he didn’t belong to our family anymore. And he packed his bags the same night and left. He’s living here in London now.”

If only I could hunt him down and— Ariana’s hand grabs my hand and my angry thoughts are cleared, and my mind is back in the room.

“Mum’s been in a right state,” says Ron. “You know — crying and stuff. She came up to London to try and talk to Percy but he slammed the door in her face. I dunno what he does if he meets Dad at work — ignores him, I s’pose.”

“But Percy must know Voldemort’s back,” says Harry slowly. “He’s not stupid, he must know your mum and dad wouldn’t risk everything without proof —”

“Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row,” says Ron, shooting Harry a furtive look. “Percy said the only evidence was your word and . . . I dunno . . . he didn’t think it was good enough.”

“Percy takes the Daily Prophet seriously,” spits Hermione tartly, and the rest of us nod.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, looking around at us all. Everyone is regarding him warily. What does he mean he doesn’t know what we’re talking about?

“Haven’t — haven’t you been getting the Daily Prophet?” Hermione asks nervously.

“Yeah, I have!” says Harry.

“Have you — er — been reading it thoroughly?” Hermione asks still more anxiously.

“Not cover to cover,” says Harry defensively. “If they were going to report anything about Voldemort it would be headline news, wouldn’t it!”

“And you get mad at us when you’re not even reading the bloody news the whole way through. Bloody hypocrite.” I say glaring at the boy wonder across from me. He glares back at me.

The others flinch at the sound of the name. Hermione hurries on, “Well, you’d need to read it cover to cover to pick it up, but they — um — they mention you a couple of times a week.”

“But I’d have seen —”

“Not if you’ve only been reading the front page, you wouldn’t,” says Hermione, shaking her head. “I’m not talking about big articles. They just slip you in, like you’re a standing joke.”

“What d’you — ?”

“It’s quite nasty, actually,” says Hermione in a voice of forced calm. “They’re just building on Rita’s stuff.”

“But she’s not writing for them anymore, is she?”

“Oh no, she’s kept her promise — not that she’s got any choice,” Hermione adds with satisfaction. “But she laid the foundation for what they’re trying to do now.”

“Which is what?” demands Harry impatiently.

“Okay, you know she wrote that you were collapsing all over the place and saying your scar was hurting and all that?”

“Yeah,” says Harry.

“Well, they’re writing about you as though you’re this deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he’s a great tragic hero or something,” says Hermione, very fast, as though it will be less unpleasant for Harry to hear these facts quickly. “They keep slipping in snide comments about you. If some far-fetched story appears they say something like ‘a tale worthy of Harry Potter’ and if anyone has a funny accident or anything it’s ‘let’s hope he hasn’t got a scar on his forehead or we’ll be asked to worship him next —’”

“I don’t want anyone to worship —” Harry begins hotly.

“I know you don’t,” says Hermione quickly, looking frightened. “I know, Harry. But you see what they’re doing? They want to turn you into someone nobody will believe. Fudge is behind it, I’ll bet anything. They want wizards on the street to think you’re just some stupid boy who’s a bit of a joke, who tells ridiculous tall stories because he loves being famous and wants to keep it going.”

“Though you are acting entitled enough.” I grumble. Ariana squeezes my hand tightly.

“Calm down. Harry’s one of your best friends and you know that. Don’t let one moment of idiocy tear all that apart.” She warns me harshly but softly.

“I didn’t ask — I didn’t want — Voldemort killed my parents!” Harry splutters. “I got famous because he murdered my family but couldn’t kill me! Who wants to be famous for that? Don’t they think I’d rather it’d never —”

“We know, Harry,” says Ginny earnestly.

“And of course, they didn’t report a word about the dementors attacking you,” says Hermione. “Someone’s told them to keep that quiet. That should’ve been a really big story, out-of-control dementors. They haven’t even reported that you broke the International Statute of Secrecy — we thought they would, it would tie in so well with this image of you as some stupid show-off — we think they’re biding their time until you’re expelled, then they’re really going to go to town — I mean, if you’re expelled, obviously,” she goes on hastily, “you really shouldn’t be, not if they abide by their own laws, there’s no case against you.”

Suddenly our conversation is broken up by all the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Uh-oh.” Fred gives the Extendable Ear a hearty tug; there is another loud crack and he and George vanish. Seconds later, Mrs. Weasley appears in the bedroom doorway.

“The meeting’s over, you can come down and have dinner now, everyone’s dying to see you, Harry. And who’s left all those Dungbombs outside the kitchen door?” She says.

“Crookshanks,” says Ginny unblushingly. “He loves playing with them.” Her lying has gotten much better since we moved in with the Weasleys.

“Oh,” says Mrs. Weasley, “I thought it might have been Kreacher, he keeps doing odd things like that. Now don’t forget to keep your voices down in the hall. Ginny, your hands are filthy, what have you been doing? Go and wash them before dinner, please . . .”

Ginny grimaces and follows her mum out the door with Luka and Ariana slipping out behind them. Ariana shoots me a pointed look as she exits. That just leaves Hermione, Ron, Harry, and me in the room together. Harry looks at the three of us warily before heaving a long sigh.

“Look . . .” he mutters, but Ron shakes his head.

“We knew you’d be angry, Harry, we really don’t blame you, but you’ve got to understand, we did try and persuade Dumbledore —” Hermione says quietly.

“Yeah, I know,” says Harry grudgingly. I level Harry with a still very annoyed look.

“I’m still irritated with you, but I’m glad that you’re okay you git.” I say grudgingly. Harry manages a glimpse of a smile.

“Who’s Kreacher?” Harry asks.

“The house-elf who lives here,” says Ron. “Nutter. Never met one like him.”

Hermione frowns at Ron. “He’s not a nutter, Ron —”

“His life’s ambition is to have his head cut off and stuck up on a plaque just like his mother,” says Ron irritably. “Is that normal, Hermione?”

“Well — well, if he is a bit strange, it’s not his fault —”

Ron rolls his eyes at Harry and me. “Hermione still hasn’t given up on spew —”

“It’s not ‘spew’!” cries Hermione heatedly. “It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, and it’s not just me, Dumbledore says we should be kind to Kreacher too —”

I wince knowing that Hermione just stepped in it again with Harry. “Yeah, yeah,” says Ron. “C’mon, I’m starving.”

He leads the way out of the door and onto the landing, but before we can descend the stairs — “Hold it!” Ron breathes, flinging out an arm to stop Harry and Hermione walking any farther. “They’re still in the hall, we might be able to hear something —”

The four of us look cautiously over the banisters. The gloomy hallway below is packed with witches and wizards, including all of Harry’s guard. They are whispering excitedly together. In the very center of the group I see the dark, greasy-haired head and prominent nose of my least favorite teacher at Hogwarts, Professor Snape. Harry and I lean farther over the banisters. We are very interested in what Snape is doing for the Order of the Phoenix. . . .

A thin piece of flesh-colored string descends in front of my eyes. Looking up I see Fred and George on the landing above, cautiously lowering the Extendable Ear towards the dark knot of people below. A moment later, however, they begin to move towards the front door and out of sight.

“Dammit,” I hear Fred whisper, as he hoists the Extendable Ear back up again. We hear the front door open and then close.

“Snape never eats here,” Ron tells Harry quietly. “Thank God. C’mon.”

“And don’t forget to keep your voice down in the hall, Harry,” Hermione whispers. I really do loath living here.

As we pass the row of house-elf heads on the wall we see Lupin, Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks at the front door, magically sealing its many locks and bolts behind those who have just left.

“We’re eating down in the kitchen,” Molly whispers, meeting us at the bottom of the stairs. “Harry, dear, if you’ll just tiptoe across the hall, it’s through this door here —”

CRASH.

“Tonks!” cries Molly exasperatedly, turning to look behind her.

“I’m sorry!” wails Tonks, who is lying flat on the floor. “It’s that stupid umbrella stand, that’s the second time I’ve tripped over —”

But the rest of her words are drowned by a horrible, earsplitting, bloodcurdling screech. The moth-eaten velvet curtains I hate so have flown apart, but there is no door behind them. For a split second, I think I am looking through a window, a window behind which an old woman in a black cap is screaming and screaming as though she is being tortured — then I realize it was simply a life-size portrait, but the most realistic, and the most unpleasant, I have ever seen in my life. I’ve seen this portrait before as well.

The old woman is drooling, her eyes are rolling, the yellowing skin of her face stretches taut as she screams, and all along the hall behind us, the other portraits wake and begin to yell too, so that I actually screw up my eyes at the noise and clap hands over my ears.

Lupin and Molly dart forward and try to tug the curtains shut over the old woman, but they will not close and she screeches louder than ever, brandishing clawed hands as though trying to tear at their faces.

“Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers —”

Tonks apologizes over and over again, at the same time dragging the huge, heavy troll’s leg back off the floor. Molly abandons the attempt to close the curtains and hurries up and down the hall, Stunning all the other portraits with her wand. Then a man with long black hair comes charging out of a door facing us.

“Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut UP!” He roars, seizing the curtain Molly had abandoned. The old woman’s face blanches.

“Yoooou!” she howls, her eyes popping at the sight of the man. “Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!”

“I said — shut — UP!” roars the man, and with a stupendous effort he and Lupin manage to force the curtains closed again.

The old woman’s screeches die and an echoing silence falls. My ears are ringing with the abrupt change in volume.

Panting slightly and sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes, Harry’s godfather, Sirius, turns to face him.

“Hello, Harry,” he says grimly, “I see you’ve met my mother.” That shocks the boy standing next to me. Yeah I can’t imagine someone’s mother ever acting like that. Molly pops back by my side, and takes my cheek in her hand.

“Jamie you’re looking a little glassy eyed there? Did you have an episode?” She asks me worriedly. I swallow the lump that’s in my throat. Yeah I really couldn’t imagine having a mum like Sirius’.


	4. The Order of the Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 4- The Order of the Phoenix

 

“I’m fine Molly. Emotions just got a little high is all… Ariana calmed me down though.” I tell the worried mother. Ariana comes closer to us shaking her head.

“Not all true Mrs. Weasley. Jamie was able to keep herself under control very well, I was only there to remind her to keep her head cool.” She says with a smile. Molly gives her a grateful look and squeezes her arm.

“You’re such a lovely child.” Molly says. We’re suddenly brought back to the conversation that is going on around us.

“Your — ?” Harry starts bewildered.

“My dear old mum, yeah,” says Sirius. “We’ve been trying to get her down for a month but we think she put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the canvas. Let’s get downstairs, quick, before they all wake up again.”

“But what’s a portrait of your mother doing here?” Harry asks, bewildered, as we go through the door from the hall and lead the way down a flight of narrow stone steps, the rest of us just behind them.

“Hasn’t anyone told you? This was my parents’ house,” says Sirius. “But I’m the last Black left, so it’s mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters — about the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.”

Sirius’ voice is filled with bitterness and it is one that I have long been used to hearing. Finally we get to the bottom of the stairs that leads down into the basement kitchen.

It is scarcely less gloomy than the hall above, a cavernous room with rough stone walls. Most of the light is coming from a large fire at the far end of the room. A haze of pipe smoke hangs in the air like battle fumes, through which looms the menacing shapes of heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark ceiling. Many chairs have been crammed into the room for the meeting and a long wooden table stands in the middle of the room, littered with rolls of parchment, goblets, empty wine bottles, and a heap of what appears to be rags. Arthur and Bill, are talking quietly with their heads together at the end of the table.

Molly clears her throat, and Arthur jumps and turns around to see us, and he jumps to his feet. “Harry!” Arthur says, hurrying forward to greet him and shaking his hand vigorously. “Good to see you!”

Over his shoulder I see Bill, who is still wearing his long hair in a ponytail (much to Molly’s dismay), hastily rolling up the lengths of parchment left on the table.

“Journey all right, Harry?” Bill calls, trying to gather up twelve scrolls at once.  “Mad-Eye didn’t make you come via Greenland, then?”

“He tried,” says Tonks, striding over to help Bill and immediately sending a candle toppling onto the last piece of parchment. “Oh no — sorry —”

Poor Tonks she means well and tries hard, but her clumsiness just gets the better of her whether she likes it or not.

“Here, dear,” says Molly, sounding exasperated, and she repairs the parchment with a wave of her wand: In the flash of light caused by Mrs. Weasley’s charm, I catch a glimpse of what looks like the plan of a building.

Molly sees us kids looking. She snatches the plan off the table and stuffs it into Bill’s heavily laden arms.

“This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly at the end of meetings,” she snaps before sweeping off towards an ancient dresser from which she starts unloading dinner plates.

Bill takes out his wand, mutters “Evanesco!” and the scrolls vanish.

“Sit down, Harry,” says Sirius. “You’ve met Mundungus, haven’t you?” The rest of us all file around the table to find a set. Tonight I end up with Luka on my left and Ariana on my right. It looks like they don’t trust me to be around Harry. Well its better for Hermione and Ron to be stuck with him at the moment than me.

The thing I had taken to be a pile of rags gives a prolonged, grunting snore and then jerks awake.

“Some’n say m’ name?” Mundungus mumbles sleepily. “I ’gree with Sirius . . .”

He raises a very grubby hand in the air as though voting, his droopy, bloodshot eyes unfocused. Ginny giggles, and I roll my eyes. That girl has become far too amused with that man for her own good. He’s nothing more than a scoundrel.

“The meeting’s over, Dung,” says Sirius. “Harry’s arrived.”

“Eh?” says Mundungus, peering balefully at Harry through his matted ginger hair.  “Blimey, so ’e ’as. Yeah . . . you all right, ’arry?”

“Yeah,” says Harry.

Mundungus fumbles nervously in his pockets, still staring at Harry, and pulls out a grimy black pipe. He sticks it in his mouth, ignites the end of it with his wand, and takes a deep pull on it. Great billowing clouds of greenish smoke obscure him in seconds. I can’t help but cover my nose at the reek. Ariana’s nose scrunches up, and I chuckle. Oh Merlin…

“Owe you a ’pology,” grunts a voice from the middle of the smelly cloud.

“For the last time, Mundungus,” calls Molly, “will you please not smoke that thing in the kitchen, especially not when we’re about to eat!”

“Ah,” says Mundungus. “Right. Sorry, Molly.” The cloud of smoke vanishes as Mundungus stows his pipe back in his pocket, but an acrid smell of burning socks lingers. I dare not tell Molly that my appetite has officially left me now.

“And if you want dinner before midnight I’ll need a hand,” Molly says to the room at large. Luka, Ariana, and I scramble up from the table to help. I’ve learned by now that helping Molly in the kitchen goes a long way to staying on her good side. “No, you can stay where you are, Harry dear, you’ve had a long journey —”

“What can I do, Molly?” says Tonks enthusiastically, bounding forward. Molly hesitates, looking apprehensive.

“Er — no, it’s all right, Tonks, you have a rest too, you’ve done enough today —”

“No, no, I want to help!” says Tonks brightly, knocking over a chair as she hurries towards the dresser from which Ginny is collecting cutlery. My brother and I have taken up the skinning of potatoes knowing that this is a safe job for us to do. It doesn’t require too much skill or effort to do, so it’s perfect for the culinary underachievers that we are.

I can’t help but smirk at the artist chef that is Ariana as she twirls gracefully around a blundering Ron, and adds an ingredient to her bowls. She’s a master in the kitchen as well as in the brewing of potions. Harry is left to sit alone at the table with Sirius and Mundungus. He’s a freeloader and will do practically anything for a meal.

After some prodding from Molly Arthur cleans his throat nervously. “So then… what’s this about a row earlier with Harry that I hear?” He says casually as he can. I stiffen from my spot, and accidently skin my potato with a little too much vigor so I end up slicing my finger slightly. I suck in a sharp breath and drop my knife and spud to hurry over to the sink.

I run the bleeding appendage under the water, letting the coolness take away the sting. “It was nothing. There can be disagreements between friends.” I say with forced lightness in my voice.

My hand is taken out of the sink, and before I can declare that I am fine, Molly has cast a spell and healed my small cut like it is nothing. “I heard that it didn’t sound like a small disagreement.” She says. I roll my eyes at the floor, and return back to my station where a clean knife and potato is waiting for me.

“S’nothing leave it alone.” I say again a little more forcefully this time. We all work in silence for a while as dinner is prepared.

“Fred — George — NO, JUST CARRY THEM!” Molly shrieks.

Harry, Sirius, and Mundungus look around and, a split second later, dive away from the table. Fred and George bewitched a large cauldron of stew, an iron flagon of butterbeer, and a heavy wooden breadboard, complete with knife, to hurtle through the air towards them. The stew skids the length of the table and comes to a halt just before the end, leaving a long black burn on the wooden surface, the flagon of butterbeer falls with a crash, spilling its contents everywhere, and the bread knife slips off the board and lands, point down and quivering ominously, exactly where Sirius’s right hand was seconds before.

“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” screams Molly. “THERE WAS NO NEED — I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS — JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE ALLOWED TO USE MAGIC NOW YOU DON’T HAVE TO WHIP YOUR WANDS OUT FOR EVERY TINY LITTLE THING!”

“We were just trying to save a bit of time!” says Fred, hurrying forward and wrenching the bread knife out of the table. “Sorry Sirius, mate — didn’t mean to —”

Harry and Sirius are both laughing. Mundungus, who has toppled backward off his chair, is swearing as he gets to his feet. Crookshanks has given an angry hiss and shoots off under the dresser, from whence his large yellow eyes glow in the darkness. I am immensely grateful to Fred and George for taking the attention off of me for the moment.

“Boys,” Arthur says, lifting the stew back into the middle of the table, “your mother’s right, you’re supposed to show a sense of responsibility now you’ve come of age —”

“— none of your brothers caused this sort of trouble!” Molly rages at the twins, slamming a fresh flagon of butterbeer onto the table and spilling almost as much again. “Bill didn’t feel the need to Apparate every few feet! Charlie didn’t Charm everything he met! Percy —”

She stops dead, catching her breath with a frightened look at her husband, whose expression is suddenly wooden. I shrink away from the frightening pair. I’m still debating who is worse when angry, Molly or Arthur. Rest assured I find both terrifying.

“Let’s eat,” says Bill quickly. I agree with him wholeheartedly.

“It looks wonderful, Molly,” says Lupin, ladling stew onto a plate for her and handing it across the table. The rest of us scurry back into the seats that we had occupied before.

For a few minutes there is silence but for the chink of plates and cutlery and the scraping of chairs as everyone settles down to their food. Then Molly turns to Sirius and says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, there’s something trapped in that writing desk in the drawing room, it keeps rattling and shaking. Of course, it could just be a boggart, but I thought we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it before we let it out.”

“Whatever you like,” says Sirius indifferently.

“The curtains in there are full of doxies too,” Molly goes on. “I thought we might try and tackle them tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” says Sirius. I hear the sarcasm in his voice. I feel badly for the man, being trapped in this house with no way out. I may not like him a lot but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel for the fellow.

Opposite me, Tonks is entertaining Hermione and Ginny by transforming her nose between mouthfuls. Screwing up her eyes each time with the a pained expression she her nose swells to a beaklike protuberance like Snape’s, shrinks to something resembling a button mushroom, and then sprouts a great deal of hair from each nostril. This is regular mealtime entertainment (one that I love), because after a while Hermione and Ginny start requesting their favorite noses.

“Do that one like a pig snout, Tonks . . .”

Tonks obliges of course. “Looks like a female Dudley.” He mumbles into his stew. Arthur, Bill, and Lupin are having an intense discussion about goblins.

“They’re not giving anything away yet,” says Bill. “I still can’t work out whether they believe he’s back or not. ’Course, they might prefer not to take sides at all. Keep out of it.”

“I’m sure they’d never go over to You-Know-Who,” says Arthur, shaking his head. “They’ve suffered losses too. Remember that goblin family he murdered last time, somewhere near Nottingham?”

“I think it depends what they’re offered,” says Lupin. “And I’m not talking about gold; if they’re offered freedoms we’ve been denying them for centuries they’re going to be tempted. Have you still not had any luck with Ragnok, Bill?”

“He’s feeling pretty anti-wizard at the moment,” explains Bill. “He hasn’t stopped raging about the Bagman business, he reckons the Ministry did a cover-up, those goblins never got their gold from him, you know —”

A gale of laughter from the middle of the table drowns the rest of Bill’s words. Fred, George, Ron, and Mundungus are rolling around in their seats.

“. . . and then,” chokes Mundungus, tears running down his face, “and then, if you’ll believe it, ’e says to me, ’e says, ‘’ere, Dung, where didja get all them toads from? ’Cos some son of a Bludger’s gone and nicked all mine!’ And I says, ‘Nicked all your toads, Will, what next? So you’ll be wanting some more, then?’ And if you’ll believe me, lads, the gormless gargoyle buys all ’is own toads back orf me for twice what ’e paid in the first place —”

I roll my eyes at that. Usually I would find such a tale amusing (far too amusing for Molly’s tastes) and be laughing right along with them. I really don’t feel like it tonight though. I just feel drained. I want to forget about everything that’s happening in the world right now for a while. It doesn’t look like that’s ever going to be possible though.

“You all right?” Luka asks me nudging me with his elbow. I glance up at my brother, and see the frown on his face and worry lines between his brows. He looks far too young to have such a serious look on his face, yet he’s always been so.

“Yeah, just not feeling quite right.” I say with a meager grin. He drapes his arm around me and pulls me closer to him. Usually I would try to fight such a hold in public, but tonight I’m not feeling it. I rest my head on his shoulder, and allow the conversation to go on around me.

“I don’t think we need to hear any more of your business dealings, thank you very much, Mundungus,” says Molly sharply, as Ron slumps forward onto the table, howling with laughter.

“Beg pardon, Molly,” says Mundungus at once, wiping his eyes and winking at Harry. “But, you know, Will nicked ’em orf Warty Harris in the first place so I wasn’t really doing nothing wrong —”

“I don’t know where you learned about right and wrong, Mundungus, but you seem to have missed a few crucial lessons,” snaps Molly coldly.

The conversation goes back to being lighter after that.

Mr. Weasley is leaning back in his chair, looking replete and relaxed, Tonks is yawning widely, her nose now back to normal, and Ginny, who has lured Crookshanks out from under the dresser, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling butterbeer corks for him to chase.

“Nearly time for bed, I think,” says Molly on a yawn.

“Not just yet, Molly,” says Sirius, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. “You know, I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort.”

The atmosphere in the room changes with the rapidity associated with the arrival of dementors. Where seconds before it was sleepily relaxed, it is now alert, even tense. I raise my head off of Luka’s shoulder. A frisson has gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort’s name. Lupin, who was about to take a sip of wine, lowers his goblet slowly, looking wary.

“I did!” says Harry indignantly. “I asked Jamie, Ron, and Hermione but they said we’re not allowed in the Order, so —”

“And they’re quite right,” says Molly sharply. “You’re too young.” She is sitting bolt upright in her chair, her fists clenched upon its arms, every trace of drowsiness gone.

“Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?” asks Sirius. “Harry’s been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s got the right to know what’s been happen —”

“Hang on!” interrupts George loudly.

“How come Harry gets his questions answered?” says Fred angrily.

“We’ve been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven’t told us a single stinking thing!” growls George.

“‘You’re too young, you’re not in the Order,’” mimics Fred, in a high-pitched voice that sounds uncannily like his mother’s. “Harry’s not even of age!”

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s doing,” says Sirius calmly. “That’s your parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand —”

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry!” snaps Molly sharply. Her normally kindly face looks dangerous. “You haven’t forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?”

“Which bit?” Sirius asks politely, but with an air as though readying himself for a fight.

“The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs to know,” says Molly, placing a heavy emphasis on the last three words.

Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George’s heads turn from Sirius to Molly as though following a tennis rally. Ginny is kneeling amid a pile of abandoned butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her mouth slightly open. Lupin’s eyes are fixed on Sirius.

“I don’t intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly,” says Sirius. “But as he was the one who saw Voldemort come back” (again, there is a collective shudder around the table at the name), “he has more right than most to —”

“He’s not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!” says Mrs. Weasley. “He’s only fifteen and —”

“— and he’s dealt with as much as most in the Order,” says Sirius, “and more than some —”

“No one’s denying what he’s done!” she says, her voice rising, her fists trembling on the arms of her chair. “But he’s still —”

“He’s not a child!” cries Sirius impatiently.

“He’s not an adult either!” says Molly, the color rising in her cheeks. “He’s not James, Sirius!”

“I’m perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly,” growls Sirius coldly.

“I’m not sure you are!” she snaps. “Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it’s as though you think you’ve got your best friend back!”

“What’s wrong with that?” asks Harry. I worry my lower lip not liking the direction that this fight is going in.

“What’s wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father, however much you might look like him!” she says, her eyes still boring into Sirius. “You are still at school and adults responsible for you should not forget it!”

“Meaning I’m an irresponsible godfather?” demands Sirius, his voice rising.

“Meaning you’ve been known to act rashly, Sirius, which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to stay at home and —”

“We’ll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of this, if you please!” snaps Sirius loudly.

“Arthur!” Molly cries, rounding on her husband. “Arthur, back me up!”

Arthur does not speak at once. He takes off his glasses and cleans them slowly on his robes, not looking at his wife. Only when he has replaced them carefully on his nose does he say, “Dumbledore knows the position has changed, Molly. He accepts that Harry will have to be filled in to a certain extent now that he is staying at headquarters —”

“Yes, but there’s a difference between that and inviting him to ask whatever he likes!”

“Personally,” interrupts Lupin quietly, looking away from Sirius at last, as Molly turns quickly to him, hopeful that finally she is about to get an ally, “I think it better that Harry gets the facts — not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture — from us, rather than a garbled version from . . . others.”

His expression is mild, but I am sure that Lupin, at least, knows that some Extendable Ears survived Molly’s purge.

“Well,” she says, breathing deeply and looking around the table for support that does not come, “well . . . I can see I’m going to be overruled. I’ll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has got Harry’s best interests at heart —”

“He’s not your son,” says Sirius quietly.

“He’s as good as,” snaps Molly fiercely. “Who else has he got?”

“He’s got me!”

“Yes,” says Molly, her lip curling. “The thing is, it’s been rather difficult for you to look after him while you’ve been locked up in Azkaban, hasn’t it?”

Sirius starts to rise from his chair. “Molly, you’re not the only person at this table who cares about Harry,” says Lupin sharply. “Sirius, sit down.”

Molly’s lower lip is trembling. Sirius sinks slowly back into his chair, his face white.

“I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this,” Lupin continues. “He’s old enough to decide for himself.”

“I want to know what’s been going on,” Harry says at once.

“Very well,” says Molly, her voice cracking. “Ginny — Ron — Hermione — Fred — George — Jamie— Luka— Ariana I want you out of this kitchen, now.” There is instant uproar.

“We’re of age!” Fred and George bellow together.

“If Harry’s allowed, why can’t I?” shouts Ron.

“Mum, I want to!” wails Ginny.

“NO!” Molly shouts, standing up, her eyes overbright. “I absolutely forbid —”

“Molly, you can’t stop Fred and George,” says Arthur wearily. “They are of age —”

“They’re still at school —”

“But they’re legally adults now,” he says in the same tired voice.

Molly is now scarlet in the face. “I — oh, all right then, Fred and George can stay, but Ron —”

“Harry’ll tell me, Hermione, and Jamie everything you say anyway!” says Ron hotly. “Won’t — won’t you?” he adds uncertainly, meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry pauses for a rather long moment looking the three of us over seriously. “’Course I will.” Harry says. Ron and Hermione beams at him, and I shoot him a grateful smile.

“Luka is my twin and I’ll tell him anyway.” I say simply. Before Molly can open her mouth to speak again Ariana steps in.

“I know too much already and grandfather doesn’t care much about what I know anymore.” Ariana interrupts.

“Fine!” shouts Molly. “Fine! Ginny — BED!”

Ginny does not go quietly. We can hear her raging and storming at her mother all the way up the stairs, and when she reaches the hall Mrs. Black’s earsplitting shrieks are added to the din. Lupin hurries off to the portrait to restore calm. It is only after he has returned, closing the kitchen door behind him and taking his seat at the table again, that Sirius speaks.

“Okay, Harry . . . what do you want to know?”

Harry takes a deep breath and starts. “Where’s Voldemort? What’s he doing? I’ve been trying to watch the Muggle news,” he says, ignoring the renewed shudders and winces at the name, “and there hasn’t been anything that looks like him yet, no funny deaths or anything —”

“That’s because there haven’t been any suspicious deaths yet,” says Sirius, “not as far as we know, anyway. . . . And we know quite a lot.”

“More than he thinks we do anyway,” says Lupin.

“How come he’s stopped killing people?” Harry asks. He knows that Voldemort has murdered more than once in the last year alone.

“Because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself at the moment,” says Sirius.  “It would be dangerous for him. His comeback didn’t come off quite the way he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up.”

“Or rather, you messed it up for him,” corrects Lupin with a satisfied smile.

“How?” Harry asks perplexedly.

“You weren’t supposed to survive!” says Sirius. “Nobody apart from his Death Eaters was supposed to know he’d come back. But you survived to bear witness.”

“And the very last person he wanted alerted to his return the moment he got back was Dumbledore,” says Lupin. “And you made sure Dumbledore knew at once.”

“How has that helped?” Harry asks.

“Are you kidding?” cries Bill incredulously. “Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was ever scared of!”

“Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the Order of the Phoenix about an hour after Voldemort returned,” explains Sirius.

“So what’s the Order been doing?” says Harry, looking around at us all.

“Working as hard as we can to make sure Voldemort can’t carry out his plans,” says Sirius.

“How d’you know what his plans are?” Harry asks quickly.

“Dumbledore’s got a shrewd idea,” says Lupin, “and Dumbledore’s shrewd ideas normally turn out to be accurate.”

“So what does Dumbledore reckon he’s planning?”

“Well, firstly, he wants to build up his army again,” says Sirius. “In the old days he had huge numbers at his command; witches and wizards he’d bullied or bewitched into following him, his faithful Death Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures. You heard him planning to recruit the giants; well, they’ll be just one group he’s after. He’s certainly not going to try and take on the Ministry of Magic with only a dozen Death Eaters.”

“So you’re trying to stop him getting more followers?”

“We’re doing our best,” says Lupin.

“How?”

“Well, the main thing is to try and convince as many people as possible that You-Know-Who really has returned, to put them on their guard,” explains Bill. “It’s proving tricky, though.”

“Why?”

“Because of the Ministry’s attitude,” Tonks pitches in. “You saw Cornelius Fudge after You-Know-Who came back, Harry. Well, he hasn’t shifted his position at all. He’s absolutely refusing to believe it’s happened.”

“But why?” says Harry desperately. “Why’s he being so stupid? If Dumbledore —”

“Ah, well, you’ve put your finger on the problem,” says Arthur with a wry smile. “Dumbledore.”

“Fudge is frightened of him, you see,” says Tonks sadly.

“Frightened of Dumbledore?” says Harry incredulously.

“Frightened of what he’s up to,” explains Arthur. “You see, Fudge thinks Dumbledore’s plotting to overthrow him. He thinks Dumbledore wants to be Minister of Magic.”

“But Dumbledore doesn’t want —”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Arthur says. “He’s never wanted the Minister’s job, even though a lot of people wanted him to take it when Millicent Bagnold retired. Fudge came to power instead, but he’s never quite forgotten how much popular support Dumbledore had, even though Dumbledore never applied for the job.”

“Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore’s much cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever asking Dumbledore for help and advice,” says Lupin. “But it seems that he’s become fond of power now, and much more confident. He loves being Minister of Magic, and he’s managed to convince himself that he’s the clever one and Dumbledore’s simply stirring up trouble for the sake of it.”

“How can he think that?” growls Harry angrily. “How can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up — that I’d make it all up?”

“Because accepting that Voldemort’s back would mean trouble like the Ministry hasn’t had to cope with for nearly fourteen years,” says Sirius bitterly. “Fudge just can’t bring himself to face it. It’s so much more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore’s lying to destabilize him.”

“You see the problem,” says Lupin. “While the Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from Voldemort, it’s hard to convince people he’s back, especially as they really don’t want to believe it in the first place. What’s more, the Ministry’s leaning heavily on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they’re calling Dumbledore’s rumor-mongering, so most of the Wizarding community are completely unaware anything’s happened, and that makes them easy targets for the Death Eaters if they’re using the Imperius Curse.”

“But you’re telling people, aren’t you?” says Harry, looking around at Arthur, Sirius, Bill, Mundungus, Lupin, and Tonks. “You’re letting people know he’s back?”

They all smile humorlessly.

“Well, as everyone thinks I’m a mad mass murderer and the Ministry’s put a ten-thousand-Galleon price on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start handing out leaflets, can I?” says Sirius restlessly.

“And I’m not a very popular dinner guest with most of the community,” says Lupin. “It’s an occupational hazard of being a werewolf.”

“Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off,” states Sirius, “and it’s very important for us to have spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet Voldemort will have them.”

“We’ve managed to convince a couple of people, though,” says Arthur.  “Tonks here, for one — she’s too young to have been in the Order of the Phoenix last time, and having Aurors on our side is a huge advantage — Kingsley Shacklebolt’s been a real asset too. He’s in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he’s been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in Tibet.”

I look down at my hands at the mention of my old guardian. It seems like a lifetime ago that we had lived with him. Everything is very different at the Weasley’s than there.

“But if none of you’s putting the news out that Voldemort’s back —” Harry begins.

“Who said none of us was putting the news out?” says Sirius. “Why d’you think Dumbledore’s in such trouble?”

“What d’you mean?” Harry asks, and I roll my eyes. For someone so smart he sure can be daft a lot.

“They’re trying to discredit him,” explains Lupin. “Didn’t you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported that he’d been voted out of the Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards because he’s getting old and losing his grip, but it’s not true, he was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a speech announcing Voldemort’s return. They’ve demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot — that’s the Wizard High Court — and they’re talking about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, too.”

“But Dumbledore says he doesn’t care what they do as long as they don’t take him off the Chocolate Frog cards,” says Bill, grinning. I can’t help but smile at that statement.

“It’s true it will break grandfather’s heart if it comes to that.” Ariana chuckles.

“It’s no laughing matter,” says Arthur shortly. “If he carries on defying the Ministry like this, he could end up in Azkaban and the last thing we want is Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows Dumbledore’s out there and wise to what he’s up to, he’s going to go cautiously for a while. If Dumbledore’s out of the way — well, You-Know-Who will have a clear field.”

“But if Voldemort’s trying to recruit more Death Eaters, it’s bound to get out that he’s come back, isn’t it?” asks Harry desperately.

“Voldemort doesn’t march up to people’s houses and bang on their front doors, Harry,” says Sirius. “He tricks, jinxes, and blackmails them. He’s well-practiced at operating in secrecy. In any case, gathering followers is only one thing he’s interested in, he’s got other plans too, plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed, and he’s concentrating on them at the moment.”

“What’s he after apart from followers?” Harry asks swiftly. I perk up actually wanting to know the answer to this question.

I think I see Sirius and Lupin exchange the most fleeting of looks before Sirius says, “Stuff he can only get by stealth.”

When we continue to look puzzled, Sirius continues, “Like a weapon. Something he didn’t have last time.”

“When he was powerful before?”

“Yes.”

“Like what kind of weapon?” questions Harry. “Something worse than the Avada Kedavra — ?”

“That’s enough.” Molly speaks from the shadows beside the door. I did not notice her return from taking Ginny upstairs. Her arms are crossed and she looks furious.

“I want you in bed, now. All of you,” she adds, looking around at Fred, George, Ron, Hermione, Luka, Ariana, and me.

“You can’t boss us —” Fred begins.

“Watch me,” she snarls. I so do not want to cross that tonight. She is trembling slightly as she looks at Sirius. “You’ve given Harry plenty of information. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straightaway.”

“Why not?” says Harry quickly. “I’ll join, I want to join, I want to fight —”

“No.” It is not Molly who speaks this time, but Lupin.

“The Order is comprised only of overage wizards,” he says. “Wizards who have left school,” he adds, as Fred and George open their mouths. “There are dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any of you . . . I think Molly’s right, Sirius. We’ve said enough.”

Sirius half-shrugs but does not argue. Molly beckons imperiously to her sons, Hermione, Ariana, Luka, and me. One by one we stand up and start out of the room. As I’m passing though she catches my arm.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten what happened today. We’ll talk about it eventually.” She warns me. I wince, and curse my rotten luck. Now she’s even more agitated over what all went down tonight. I’m not in for a break anytime soon.


	5. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 5- The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

 

The second Hermione, Ariana, and I are shuffled into our room; Ginny is leaping up from her bed with a mischievous expression on her face. “So? What happened?” She demands quickly. Hermione huffs, but I put my hands on her shoulders to calm her down.

“Bloody hell Gin, give me a few seconds and I’ll tell you everything that I know.” I tell the girl with a small smile. She rolls her eyes and huffs, pouting as she drops back down onto her bed.

“Teaching her the flair for the dramatics Jame?” Ariana says with a smirk pulling her pajamas out of her trunk.

“If anyone here is the actor its you Dumbledore.” I retort not even looking up to see her amused expression. Ginny makes a strangled noise, and I shoot her a dirty look.

“Children, I’m surrounded by them.” Hermione mutters straightening her pajama top.

“Says a child.” Ginny snorts, sticking her tongue right back out at the bushy haired girl. I swear I’m surprised that anything ever gets done around here some days.

“So… come on then. Don’t keep me waiting.” Ginny pleads urgently. I roll my eyes at her finishing pulling on the bottoms of my Quidditch bottoms.

“Ginny I swear that it wasn’t all that much new information. Voldemort is out there, and the world is turning dangerous again because of it.” I say shortly. Ginny glares at me.

“There’s more to that!” She growls. I throw a pillow at her, and climb into my bed next to her. Ariana plops herself down at the foot of my bed, and twirls her blond hair pensively.

“Jame, you should just tell her. Its not like it was all that much to begin with. These are scary times that we live in… she should be prepared for what’s coming. Grandfather is wrong.” Ariana says firmly catching my eye. I bite my lip worriedly and glance at the redhead out of the corner of my eye. I flick my gaze back at Ariana.   
“I’m scared.” I admit softly. There’s a sharp intake of breath from my other side from Hermione. She doesn’t often hear me admit my fear of something.

“All the more reason to keep the ones you care for informed.” Ariana tells me softly. Ginny slides off her bed and slips into the bed beside me. She grabs my hand and squeezes it.

“I’m not little Jamie. I can handle it— we can handle it together.” She entreats. I worry my lip some more, before letting out a sigh.

“He’s— he’s looking for a weapon.” I let out in a shaky breath. Ginny freezes from beside me.

“Worse than… well you know Ava…” Ginny strangles on the rest of the unforgivable curse.

“That’s what the Order thinks. Frankly they don’t know much more than that.” Hermione says trying to smooth the situation over.

“What they’re willing to share with us you mean.” Ariana corrects bitterly. I arch an eyebrow at her and the girl just turns her brooding gaze away from me. I guess things weren’t going as great with her grandfather as she was letting on. Ginny shivers from next to me, and I wrap my arm around her. Before we can say anything else though, the door opens and Molly is instantly glaring at the four of us.

“What did I say! Get in bed! It’s late and there is plenty to do tomorrow, and I suggest hurrying up or there will be more for you then!” She snaps. Ginny and Ariana scramble into their own beds terrified of Molly and the threat of extra grueling work. Her gaze lands on me, and I can see that she’s giving me a look as if she trying to decide on whether to bring up the fight that I had with Harry earlier.

“Good night Molly.” I say around a fake yawn. She narrows her eyes at me slightly before they soften into worried concern.

“Good night girls. See you bright and early in the morning. We have cleaning to do!” She says closing the door behind her. The four of us lay in the silence for a few minutes before Ginny opens her mouth.

“I can’t believe that there’s still more to clean. I’m hiring a cleaning witch when I’m an adult!”

* * *

 

The next thing I know I’m getting an awfully loud wakeup call in the form of two apparating redheaded boys.

“Mum says get up, your breakfast is in the kitchen and then she needs you in the drawing room, there are loads more doxies than she thought and she’s found a nest of dead puffskeins under the sofa.” Fred cries out loudly, before apparating back out of the room. George drops a firecracker on the ground, which sparks to life with a fury. Ginny and Hermione are howling for the racket to stop, and Ariana’s ragged bedhead shoot up from her bed, looking around anxiously and blearily.

“Those prats.” I grumble around a yawn, making my way over to the firecracker and putting it out with my pillow, shrugging my head at the smoking holes that it left behind.

A half hour later we dress and eat breakfast quickly with Harry, Ron, and Luka whom we had run into out into the hall. The seven of us quickly enter the drawing room, a long, high-ceilinged room on the first floor with olive-green walls covered in dirty tapestries. The carpet exhales little clouds of dust every time someone puts their foot on it and the long, moss-green velvet curtains are buzzing as though swarming with invisible bees. It is around these that Molly, Fred, and George are clustered.

The three of them look rather peculiar, as they have tied cloths over their noses and mouths. Each of them is also holding a large bottle of black liquid with a nozzle at the end.

“Cover your faces and take a spray,” Molly says to the group of us the moment she sees us, pointing to a group of bottles of black liquid standing on a spindle-legged table. “It’s Doxycide. I’ve never seen an infestation this bad — what that house-elf’s been doing for the last ten years —”

Hermione’s face is half concealed by a tea towel but I distinctly see her throw a reproachful look at Molly at these words.

“Kreacher’s really old, he probably couldn’t manage —”

“You’d be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione,” says Sirius, who has just entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what appears to be dead rats. “I’ve just been feeding Buckbeak,” he adds, in reply to our inquiring look. “I keep him upstairs in my mother’s bedroom. Anyway . . . this writing desk . . .”

He drops the bag of rats onto an armchair, then bends over to examine the locked cabinet which, I now notice for the first time, is shaking slightly. Harry gives me a grim look over his rag. We have had plenty experience with what I think that is.

“Well, Molly, I’m pretty sure this is a boggart,” says Sirius, peering through the keyhole, “but perhaps we ought to let Mad-Eye have a shifty at it before we let it out — knowing my mother it could be something much worse.”

“Right you are, Sirius,” says Molly.

They are both speaking in carefully light, polite voices that tell me quite plainly that neither has forgotten their disagreement of the night before.

A loud, clanging bell sounds from downstairs, followed at once by the cacophony of screams and wails that had been triggered the previous night by Tonks knocking over the umbrella stand.

“I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!” says Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying back out of the room. We hear him thundering down the stairs as Mrs. Black’s screeches echo up through the house once more: “Stains of dishonor, filthy half-breeds, blood traitors, children of filth . . .”

“Hate that woman.” I growl out, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ariana give me amused looks.

“You didn’t know that woman.” The young Dumbledore counters back. Molly asks Harry to close the door, and he does so hanging around the doorway longer than necessary and she hurries him up. At the disgruntled look on his face, I can see that he didn’t get anything good from his eavesdropping.

Molly is bending over to check the page on doxies in Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests, which is lying open on the sofa. I groan and take a few steps away. I thought that I’d seen the last of that git!

“Right, you lot, you need to be careful, because doxies bite and their teeth are poisonous. I’ve got a bottle of antidote here, but I’d rather nobody needed it.”

She straightens up, positioned herself squarely in front of the curtains, and beckons us all forward.

“I wonder if we’d get extra credit from Hagrid for dealing with all the doxies. They’re magical creatures.” I grumble.

“Brilliant!” Ron exclaims and I swear that he’s grinning under his rag.

“When I say the word, start spraying immediately,” Molly says glaring at us for not paying attention. “They’ll come flying out at us, I expect, but it says on the sprays one good squirt will paralyze them. When they’re immobilized, just throw them in this bucket.”

She steps carefully out of their line of fire and raises her own spray. “All right — squirt!”

I was spraying only a few seconds when a fully grown doxy comes soaring out of a fold in the material, shiny beetlelike wings whirring, tiny needle-sharp teeth bared, its fairylike body covered with thick black hair and its four tiny fists clenched with fury.  I catch it full in the face with a blast of Doxycide; it freezes in midair and falls, with a surprisingly loud thunk, onto the worn carpet below. I pick it up and throw it in the bucket. Well that’s something you don’t see everyday I’ll tell you.

“Fred, what are you doing?” snaps Molly sharply. “Spray that at once and throw it away!”

I turn around to look at Fred. He is holding a struggling doxy between his forefinger and thumb.

“Right-o,” Fred says brightly, spraying the doxy quickly in the face so that it faints, but the moment Molly’s back is turned he pockets it with a wink. I grin back at him, and slip a thumbs up since he can’t see the grin.

“We want to experiment with doxy venom for our Skiving Snackboxes,” George tells Harry softly beside me.

Deftly spraying two doxies at once as they soar straight for my nose, I move closer to George and Harry to hear him mutter, “What are Skiving Snackboxes?”

“Range of sweets to make you ill,” George whispers, keeping a wary eye on Molly’s back. “Not seriously ill, mind, just ill enough to get you out of a class when you feel like it. Fred and I have been developing them this summer. Jamie’s been a sport trying some of them out. They’re double-ended, color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you’ve been rushed out of the lesson for the hospital wing, you swallow the purple half —”

“‘— which restores you to full fitness, enabling you to pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to unprofitable boredom.’ That’s what we’re putting in the adverts, anyway,” whispers Fred, who has edged over out of Molly’s line of vision and is now sweeping a few stray doxies from the floor and adding them to his pocket. “But they still need a bit of work. At the moment our testers are having a bit of trouble stopping puking long enough to swallow the purple end.”

“Testers?” Harry questions.

“Mainly me, when I’m not recovering from failed trial runs.” I mutter spraying yet another angered doxy.

“Us as well,” says Fred. “We take it in turns. George did the Fainting Fancies — the three of us tried the Nosebleed Nougat —”

“Mum thought we’d been dueling,” says George.

“That was a fun day.” I groan remembering the murderous look on Molly’s face.

“Joke shop still on, then?” Harry mutters, pretending to be adjusting the nozzle on his spray.

“Well, we haven’t had a chance to get premises yet,” says Fred, dropping his voice even lower as Molly mops her brow with her scarf before returning to the attack, “so we’re running it as a mail-order service at the moment. We put advertisements in the Daily Prophet last week.”

“All thanks to you, mate,” says George. I glare at him. “And you too Jame. But don’t worry . . . Mum hasn’t got a clue. She won’t read the Daily Prophet anymore, ’cause of it telling lies about you and Dumbledore.”

“Now it really is bloody trash.” I comment picking up a few felled doxies and handing some to George to pocket.

The de-doxying of the curtains takes most of the morning. It is past midday when Molly finally removes her protective scarf, sinks into a sagging armchair, and springs up again with a cry of disgust, having sat on the bag of dead rats. The curtains are no longer buzzing; they hang limp and damp from the intensive spraying; unconscious doxies lay crammed in the bucket at the foot of us beside a bowl of their black eggs, at which Crookshanks is now sniffing and Fred and George are shooting covetous looks.

“I think we’ll tackle those after lunch.”

Molly points at the dusty glass-fronted cabinets standing on either side of the mantelpiece. They are crammed with an odd assortment of objects: a selection of rusty daggers, claws, a coiled snakeskin, a number of tarnished silver boxes inscribed with languages I can not understand and, least pleasant of all, an ornate crystal bottle with a large opal set into the stopper, full of what I am quite sure is blood. Who in Merlin’s name keeps bottles of blood lying around?

The clanging doorbell rings again. Everyone looks at Molly.

“Stay here,” she says firmly, snatching up the bag of rats as Mrs. Black’s screeches start up again from down below. “I’ll bring up some sandwiches.”

She leaves the room, closing the door carefully behind her. At once, everyone dashes over to the window to look down onto the doorstep. It’s crowded, but we can see the top of an unkempt gingery head and a stack of precariously balanced cauldrons.

“Mundungus!” says Hermione. “What’s he brought all those cauldrons for?”

“Probably looking for a safe place to keep them,” says Harry. “Isn’t that what he was doing the night he was supposed to be tailing me? Picking up dodgy cauldrons?”

“Yeah, you’re right!” says Fred, as the front door opens; Mundungus heaves his cauldrons through it and disappears from view. “Blimey, Mum won’t like that . . .”

He and George cross to the door and stand beside it, listening intently. Mrs. Black’s screaming has stopped again.

“Mundungus is talking to Sirius and Kingsley,” Fred mutters, frowning with concentration. At Kingsley’s name Luka and I rush over to the door to try and listen in as well. “Can’t hear properly . . . d’you reckon we can risk the Extendable Ears?”

“Might be worth it,” says George. “I could sneak upstairs and get a pair —” But at that precise moment there is an explosion of sound from downstairs that renders Extendable Ears quite unnecessary. All of us can hear exactly what Molly is shouting at the top of her voice.

“WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN GOODS!”

“I love hearing Mum shouting at someone else,” snickers Fred, with a satisfied smile on his face as he opens the door an inch or so to allow Molly’s voice to permeate the room better. “It makes such a nice change.”

“— COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE HAVEN’T GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT YOU DRAGGING STOLEN CAULDRONS INTO THE HOUSE —”

“The idiots are letting her get into her stride,” says George, shaking his head. “You’ve got to head her off early, otherwise she builds up a head of steam and goes on for hours. And she’s been dying to have a go at Mundungus ever since he sneaked off when he was supposed to be following you, Harry — and there goes Sirius’s mum again —”

Molly’s voice is lost amid fresh shrieks and screams from the portraits in the hall. George makes to shut the door to drown the noise, but before he can do so, a house-elf edges into the room. Oh I seriously dislike this particular house elf. He needs to be taught some proper manners and fast.

Except for the filthy rag tied like a loincloth around its middle, it is completely naked. It looks very old. Its skin seems to be several times too big for it and though it is bald like all house-elves, there is a quantity of white hair growing out of its large, batlike ears. Its eyes are a bloodshot and watery gray, and its fleshy nose is large and rather snoutlike.

The elf takes absolutely no notice of all of us. Acting as though it can not see us, it shuffles hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly, towards the far end of the room, muttering under its breath all the while in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog’s,  “. . . Smells like a drain and a criminal to boot, but she’s no better, nasty old blood traitor with her brats messing up my Mistress’s house, oh my poor Mistress, if she knew, if she knew the scum they’ve let in her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do . . .”

“Hello, Kreacher,” says Fred very loudly, closing the door with a snap.

The house-elf freezes in his tracks, stopped muttering, and then gives a very pronounced and very unconvincing start of surprise.

“Kreacher did not see Young Master,” he says, turning around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he adds, perfectly audibly, “Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is.”

“Sorry?” says George. “Didn’t catch that last bit.”

“Kreacher said nothing,” says the elf, with a second bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, “and there’s its twin, unnatural little beasts they are.”

“You’d best be careful how you talk to people Kreacher.” I warn him fixing the old elf with an unimpressed look.

“Ah, Mistress Pendragon I didn’t see you there. Kreacher is just doing his job for Mistress.” The old elf says turning back to the floor. I grit my teeth upset that he would treat me better just because of my family name.

“Hate to break it to you Kreacher but Jamie and I are only half-bloods. The only pure blooded wizards around here are those so called creatures you mentioned.” Luka says crossly to the elf crossing his arms. I nod my head to my brother in agreement. Just like Harry’s mum ours was a muggle born as well.

“Kreacher did not say Pendragons were a smart family.” The elf mutters loudly, and Ariana grabs me before I can step forward to hit the lousy excuse of an elf.

“. . . and there’s the Mudblood, standing there bold as brass, oh if my Mistress knew, oh how she’d cry, and there’s a new boy, Kreacher doesn’t know his name, what is he doing here, Kreacher doesn’t know . . .”

“This is Harry, Kreacher,” says Hermione tentatively. “Harry Potter.”

Kreacher’s pale eyes widen and he mutters faster and more furiously than ever.

“The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she is my friend, if Kreacher’s Mistress saw him in such company, oh what would she say —”

“She’d kick your arse, but I wouldn’t feel very inclined to stop her.” I snap, and Ariana tightens her grip slightly. Hermione gives me a grateful but calming look.

“Don’t call her a Mudblood!” says Ron and Ginny together, very angrily.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione whispers, “he’s not in his right mind, he doesn’t know what he’s —”

“Don’t kid yourself, Hermione, he knows exactly what he’s saying,” says Fred, eyeing Kreacher with great dislike.

Kreacher is still muttering, his eyes on Harry. “Is it true? Is it Harry Potter? Kreacher can see the scar, it must be true, that’s that boy who stopped the Dark Lord, Kreacher wonders how he did it —”

“Don’t we all, Kreacher?” says Fred.

“What do you want anyway?” George asks.

Kreacher’s huge eyes dart onto George. “Kreacher is cleaning,” he says evasively.

“A likely story,” says a voice behind us.

Sirius has come back; he is glowering at the elf from the doorway. The noise in the hall has abated; perhaps Molly and Mundungus have moved their argument down into the kitchen. At the sight of Sirius, Kreacher flings himself into a ridiculously low bow that flattens his snoutlike nose on the floor.

“Stand up straight,” says Sirius impatiently. “Now, what are you up to?”

“Kreacher is cleaning,” the elf repeats. “Kreacher lives to serve the noble house of Black —”

“— and it’s getting blacker every day, it’s filthy,” says Sirius.

“Master always liked his little joke,” says Kreacher, bowing again, and continuing in an undertone, “Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother’s heart —”

“My mother didn’t have a heart, Kreacher,” Sirius snaps. “She kept herself alive out of pure spite.”

Kreacher bows again and says, “Whatever Master says,” then mutters furiously, “Master is not fit to wipe slime from his mother’s boots, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving him, how she hated him, what a disappointment he was —”

See, I really hate this elf.

“I asked you what you were up to,” says Sirius coldly. “Every time you show up pretending to be cleaning, you sneak something off to your room so we can’t throw it out.”

“Kreacher would never move anything from its proper place in Master’s house,” says the elf, then mutters very fast, “Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out, seven centuries it’s been in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher will not let Master and the blood traitors and the brats destroy it —”

“I thought it might be that,” says Sirius, casting a disdainful look at the opposite wall. “She’ll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don’t doubt, but if I can get rid of it I certainly will. Now go away, Kreacher.”

It seems that Kreacher does not dare disobey a direct order; nevertheless, the look he gives Sirius as he shuffles out past him is redolent of deepest loathing and he mutters all the way out of the room.

“— comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw the house now, scum living in it, her treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of hers and he’s back, they say he’s a murderer too —”

“Keep muttering and I will be a murderer!” says Sirius irritably, and he slams the door shut on the elf.

“Sirius, he’s not right in the head,” says Hermione pleadingly, “I don’t think he realizes we can hear him.”

“Give it a rest for this one Hermione. That elf is an annoying little prat.” I say sharply, and pull my arm out of Ariana’s grasp to start pacing. It annoys me that Hermione will allow people to say such horrible things about her, and give them excuses to do so.

“He’s been alone too long,” says Sirius, “taking mad orders from my mother’s portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little —”

“If you just set him free,” says Hermione hopefully, “maybe —”

“We can’t set him free, he knows too much about the Order,” says Sirius curtly. “And anyway, the shock would kill him. You suggest to him that he leaves this house, see how he takes it.”

Sirius walks across the room, where the tapestry Kreacher had been trying to protect hangs the length of the wall. We all follow him over to it.

The tapestry looks immensely old; it is faded and looks as though doxies have gnawed it in places; nevertheless, the golden thread with which it is embroidered still glints brightly enough to show us a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as I can tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:

THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK

“TOUJOURS PUR”

“You’re not on here!” says Harry, after scanning the bottom of the tree.

“Good riddance.” I whisper under my breath so that no one can hear me.

“I used to be there,” says Sirius, pointing at a small, round, charred hole in the tapestry, rather like a cigarette burn. “My sweet old mother blasted me off after I ran away from home — Kreacher’s quite fond of muttering the story under his breath.”

“You ran away from home?”

“When I was about sixteen,” says Sirius. “I’d had enough.”

“Where did you go?” asks Harry, staring at him.

“Your dad’s place,” says Sirius. “Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. Yeah, I camped out at your dad’s during the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen I got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold — he’s been wiped off here too, that’s probably why — anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s for Sunday lunch, though.”

“But . . . why did you . . . ?”

“Leave?” Sirius smiles bitterly and runs a hand through his long, unkempt hair.  “Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal . . . my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them . . . that’s him.”

Sirius jabs a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name REGULUS BLACK. A date of death (some fifteen years previously) follow the date of birth.

“He was younger than me,” says Sirius, “and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded.”

“But he died,” says Harry.

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “Stupid idiot . . . he joined the Death Eaters.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Come on, Harry, haven’t you seen enough of this house to tell what kind of wizards my family were?” says Sirius testily.

“Were — were your parents Death Eaters as well?”

“No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea, they were all for the purification of the Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having purebloods in charge. They weren’t alone either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he had the right idea about things. . . . They got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up at first.”

“Was he killed by an Auror?” Harry asks tentatively.

“Oh no,” says Sirius. “No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort’s orders, more likely, I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person. From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you don’t just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It’s a lifetime of service or death.”

“Lunch,” says Molly’s voice. I jump and spin around to see the older witch, and attempt to keep the guilty look off my face. I know I didn’t do anything wrong but ever since her and Arthur’s fight with Sirius’ fight over Augustus I think she would disapprove of this too.

She is holding her wand high in front of her, balancing a huge tray loaded with sandwiches and cake on its tip. She is very red in the face and still looks angry. Everyone crowds around her to get some food except for Harry who sticks back to talk with Sirius. I feel a deeper respect for Sirius realizing all that he had to go through in his younger years. He understands what’s its like to deal with darker wizards.

He was just trying to look out for Luka and me with Augustus. I believe I’ll start trying to be better in his presence. After grabbing my food I wander back over to the pair of them to listen in on their conversation. Sirius gives me a light smile in greeting and I smile back at him, slapping Harry’s hand away when he tries to steal half of my sandwich.

“I haven’t looked at this for years. There’s Phineas Nigellus . . . my great-great-grandfather, see? Least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had . . . and Araminta Meliflua . . . cousin of my mother’s . . . tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal . . . and dear Aunt Elladora . . . she started the family tradition of beheading house-elves when they got too old to carry tea trays . . . of course, anytime the family produced someone halfway decent they were disowned. I see Tonks isn’t on here. Maybe that’s why Kreacher won’t take orders from her — he’s supposed to do whatever anyone in the family asks him . . .”

“You and Tonks are related?” Harry asks, surprised. I just settle for raising an eyebrow for my mouth is full.

“Oh yeah, her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite cousin,” says Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully. “No, Andromeda’s not on here either, look —”

He points to another small round burn mark between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

“Andromeda’s sisters are still here because they made lovely, respectable pure-blood marriages, but Andromeda married a Muggle-born, Ted Tonks, so —”

My stomach sours seeing Bellatrix’s name on that wall, I hate seeing her there, and knowing that Augustus would be up there too if they were actually married.

Sirius mimes blasting the tapestry with a wand and laughs sourly. Harry, however, did not laugh; he is too busy staring at the names to the right of Andromeda’s burn mark. A double line of gold embroidery linked Narcissa Black with Lucius Malfoy, and a single vertical gold line from their names leads to the name Draco.

“You’re related to the Malfoys!”

“The pure-blood families are all interrelated,” says Sirius. “If you’re only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods your choice is very limited, there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are cousins by marriage and Arthur’s something like my second cousin once removed. But there’s no point looking for them on here — if ever a family was a bunch of blood traitors it’s the Weasleys.”

Sirius notices my gaze fixed onto Bellatrix’s. “Yes she is a rather nasty piece of work. Got herself a fine match in that uncle of yours Jamie. They never actually got a chance to tie the knot, but mother was thrilled that Bella had managed to nab herself a Pendragon. Obviously she and Augustus are Death Eaters locked away in Azkeban.” Sirius explains grimly. I jump feeling a hand land on my shoulder.

I turn and see Luka standing there looking at Bellatrix’s name as well. “Augustus is a shame to the Pendragon name. I for one am rather glad that they never got the chance to marry or procreate. I would rather not have a Malfoy like cousin running out there. I don’t know about you Jame.” He says evenly with a hard strain in his voice.

“No way. I don’t think the world can handle more than two Pendragons at a time.” I tell him with a tiny smile. He knocks his shoulder with mine, and I catch Sirius and Harry smiling at us.

“In a way we’re distantly related as well. Something like eighth cousins. There’s a lot more foreign pureblood in your Pendragon branch.” Sirius chortles. I roll my eyes at that.

“I blame Uther.” I mutter, and Luka snorts, nothing like a little old family humor.

Sirius turns away from the tapestry, his hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t like being back here,” he says, staring across the drawing room. “I never thought I’d be stuck in this house again.”

“It’s ideal for headquarters, of course,” Sirius says. “My father put every security measure known to Wizard-kind on it when he lived here. It’s Unplottable, so Muggles could never come and call — as if they’d have wanted to — and now Dumbledore’s added his protection, you’d be hard put to find a safer house anywhere. Dumbledore’s Secret-Keeper for the Order, you know — nobody can find headquarters unless he tells them personally where it is — that note Moody showed you last night, that was from Dumbledore . . .” Sirius gives a short, barklike laugh.  “If my parents could see the use it was being put to now . . . well, my mother’s portrait should give you some idea . . .”

He scowls for a moment, then sighs.

I decide that it would be a good idea to give the godfather and godson some time together, so I nudge Luka out of his pondering, and gesture back over to the large Weasley group with Hermione and Ariana. Molly sees that our attention is back on them, and waves us over with a smile on her face. Maybe family is something the you can actually choose.

After lunch was over, much to the loud protests of us kids, it was time to return to cleaning which is something that I am well sick of doing now.

We emptied the glass cabinets for the afternoon. It is a job that requires a lot of concentration, as many of the objects in there seem very reluctant to leave their dusty shelves. Sirius sustains a bad bite from a silver snuffbox; within seconds, his bitten hand has developed an unpleasant crusty covering like a tough brown glove.

“It’s okay,” he says, examining the hand with interest before tapping it lightly with his wand and restoring its skin to normal, “must be Wartcap powder in there.”

He throws the box aside into the sack where we are depositing the debris from the cabinets; I see George wrap his own hand carefully in a cloth moments later and sneak the box into his already doxy-filled pocket. I have a feeling that I’m going to be testing out a lot of new ‘snacks’ in the near future.

We find an unpleasant-looking silver instrument, something like a many-legged pair of tweezers, which scuttles up Harry’s arm like a spider when he picks it up, and attempts to puncture his skin; Sirius seizes it and smashes it with a heavy book entitled Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. There is a musical box that emits a faintly sinister, tinkling tune when wound, and we all find ourselves becoming curiously weak and sleepy until Ginny has the sense to slam the lid shut; also a heavy locket that none of us can open, a number of ancient seals and, in a dusty box, an Order of Merlin, First Class, that was awarded to Sirius’s grandfather for “Services to the Ministry.”

“It means he gave them a load of gold,” says Sirius contemptuously, throwing the medal into the rubbish sack. I raise an eyebrow at that, but shrug my shoulders deciding to leave the subject well enough alone.

Several times, Kreacher sidles into the room and attempts to smuggle things away under his loincloth, muttering horrible curses every time we catch him at it. When Sirius wrests a large golden ring bearing the Black crest from his grip Kreacher actually bursts into furious tears and leaves the room sobbing under his breath and calling Sirius names I have never heard before.

“It was my father’s,” says Sirius, throwing the ring into the sack. “Kreacher wasn’t quite as devoted to him as to my mother, but I still caught him snogging a pair of my father’s old trousers last week.”

It’s sad in a creepy sort of way, but I’m not going to be like Hermione and butt my way into Sirius’ family life. Mine is complicated enough these days as it is.

Molly keeps us all working very hard over the next few days. The drawing room takes three days to decontaminate; finally the only undesirable things left in it are the tapestry of the Black family tree, which resists all our attempts to remove it from the wall, and the rattling writing desk; Moody has not dropped by headquarters yet, so we can not be sure what is inside it.

We move from the drawing room to a dining room on the ground floor where we find spiders large as saucers lurking in the dresser (Ron leaves the room hurriedly to make a cup of tea and does not return for an hour and a half). I tease him horribly for that for those spiders can’t phase me after Aragog’s children. The china, which bears the Black crest and motto, is all thrown unceremoniously into a sack by Sirius, and the same fate meets a set of old photographs in tarnished silver frames, all of whose occupants squeal shrilly as the glass covering them smashes.

Snape might refer to their work as “cleaning,” but in my opinion we are really waging war on the house, which is putting up a very good fight, aided and abetted by Kreacher. The house-elf keeps appearing wherever we are congregated, his muttering becoming more and more offensive as he attempts to remove anything he can from the rubbish sacks. He even went as far as to tackle me one time. I had no problem kicking him sharply off me though.

Sirius goes as far as to threaten him with clothes, but Kreacher fixes him with a watery stare and says, “Master must do as Master wishes,” before turning away and muttering very loudly, “but Master will not turn Kreacher away, no, because Kreacher knows what they are up to, oh yes, he is plotting against the Dark Lord, yes, with these Mudbloods and traitors and scum . . .”

At which Sirius, ignoring Hermione’s protests, seizes Kreacher by the back of his loincloth and throws him bodily from the room.

The doorbell rings several times a day, which is the cue for Sirius’s mother to start shrieking again, and for the rest of us kids to attempt to eavesdrop on the visitor, though we glean very little from the brief glimpses and snatches of conversation we are able to sneak before Mrs. Weasley recalls us to our tasks. Snape flits in and out of the house several times more, though to Harry’s and my relief we never come face-to-face; I also caught sight of my Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, looking very odd in a Muggle dress and coat, though she also seems too busy to linger.

Ariana tried talking to her asking about her grandfather, but the professor only smiled at her sadly, and patted her shoulder. I would spend part of that night consoling her for Ariana misses her grandfather.

Sometimes, however, the visitors stay to help; Tonks joins us for a memorable afternoon in which we find a murderous old ghoul lurking in an upstairs toilet, and Lupin, who is staying in the house with Sirius but who leaves it for long periods to do mysterious work for the Order, help us repair a grandfather clock that has developed the unpleasant habit of shooting heavy bolts at passersby. I have grown rather close to both of the two adults, though Tonks is by far my favorite. Mundungus redeems himself slightly in Molly’s eyes by rescuing Ron from an ancient set of purple robes that tried to strangle him when he removed them from their wardrobe.

I can tell that Harry is getting nervous about the hearing that is nearing each day that we clean. He won’t talk about it with Hermione, Ron, and me though. I try to do my best to keep him distracted from the looming hearing though. There’s only so much a girl can do though.

At dinner the night before Harry’s hearing, Molly finally decides to broach the subject with him. “I’ve ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight too. A good first impression can work wonders.” She tells him.

All the small talk that was happening at the table stops to look at the two of them. Harry stares down at his pork chop like it’s the most interesting thing that he’s ever seen.

“How am I getting there?” he asks Molly, trying to sound unconcerned.

“Arthur’s taking you to work with him,” she says gently. Arthur smiles encouragingly at Harry across the table.

“You can wait in my office until it’s time for the hearing,” he says. Harry looks over at Sirius, but before he can ask the question, Molly has answered it.

“Professor Dumbledore doesn’t think it’s a good idea for Sirius to go with you, and I must say I —”

“— think he’s quite right,” mocks Sirius through clenched teeth.

Molly purses her lips.

“When did Dumbledore tell you that?” Harry says, staring at Sirius.

“He came last night, when you were in bed,” says Arthur. Sirius and Harry turn moody after that and I glance around the table at the rest of the kids here. There’s honestly nothing that we can do for Harry now, but I’ll say this; if Harry gets expelled from Hogwarts then I am throwing the Pendragon name around to get him reinstated. There’s no way that Harry Potter is not going to Hogwarts this year. Mark my words Merlin.


	6. The Woes of Mrs. Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 6- The Woes of Mrs. Weasley

 

Harry was gone by the time that I woke up the next morning. His hearing was scheduled for earlier this morning, and Molly was too preoccupied to wake us up for more chores, though I’m not sure that there is actually anything left in this house for us to possibly clean.

At breakfast everyone was tense muttering to each other in low worried tones about the hearing until Molly had snapped demanding that everyone talk normally and about anything but Harry’s hearing. Needles to say there were a lot of comments on Quidditch and the weather even though we hadn’t been outside in days.

A few hours later we’re all scattered around the newly cleaned living room attempting to focus on other things. Ron is so distracted that he even loses a few games of chess to my brother, who was shocked to say the least. A half-hour later Molly calls us down to the kitchen for lunch.

We’re sitting at the table eating (well more like pushing food around the plate in my case) when a messy haired boy stumbles into the room with a slightly dazed bewildered look on his face. The room seems to suck in a worried shocked breath of air before a dazzling grin flies to his face.

“Guess who’s going back to Hogwarts?” Is all Harry has to say when I’m pumping my fist in the air, part ecstatic part relieved.

“I knew it!” yells Ron, punching the air. “You always get away with stuff!”

“They were bound to clear you,” says Hermione, who looked positively faint with anxiety when Harry had entered the kitchen and is now holding a shaking hand over her eyes. “There was no case against you, none at all . . .”

“Everyone seems quite relieved, though, considering they all knew I’d get off,” says Harry, smiling.

Molly is wiping her face on her apron, and Fred, George, and Ginny are doing a kind of war dance to a chant that goes “He got off, he got off, he got off —”

Luka and Ariana share relieved glances, and give Harry their compliments on his exoneration.

“That’s enough, settle down!” shouts Arthur, though he too is smiling. “Listen, Sirius, Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry —”

“What?” says Sirius sharply.

“He got off, he got off, he got off —”

“Be quiet, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on level nine, then they went up to Fudge’s office together. Dumbledore ought to know.”

“Absolutely,” says Sirius. “We’ll tell him, don’t worry.”

“Well, I’d better get going, there’s a vomiting toilet in Bethnal Green waiting for me. Molly, I’ll be late, I’m covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in for dinner —”

“He got off, he got off, he got off —”

“That’s enough — Fred — George — Ginny!” snaps Molly, as Arthur leaves the kitchen. “Harry dear, come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate breakfast . . .”

Harry sits down between Ron and Hermione across from me with the giant smile still present on his face. I’m really happy for the guy he deserves good things to happen to him after a while.

“’Course, once Dumbledore turned up on your side, there was no way they were going to convict you,” says Ron happily, now dishing great mounds of mashed potatoes onto everyone’s plates.

“Yeah, he swung it for me,” says Harry. The look on his face though tells that he’s still not happy with Professor Dumbledore. Suddenly Harry claps a hand to his forehead over his scar.

“Harry?” I say worriedly.

“What’s up?” says Hermione, looking alarmed.

“Scar,” Harry mumbles. “But it’s nothing. . . . It happens all the time now . . .”

None of the others have noticed a thing; all of them are now helping themselves to food while gloating over Harry’s narrow escape; Fred, George, and Ginny are still singing, while Luka and Ariana are happily discussing the upcoming school year. Hermione looks rather anxious, but before she can say anything, Ron says happily,  “I bet Dumbledore turns up this evening to celebrate with us, you know.”

“I don’t think he’ll be able to, Ron,” says Molly, setting a huge plate of roast chicken down in front of Harry. “He’s really very busy at the moment.”

“HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF —”

“SHUT UP!” roars Mrs. Weasley. Well at least things have gotten back to normal around here.

* * *

 

Over the next few days it becomes quite obvious that there is one person in Grimmauld Place that is not as happy as the rest of us are with the fact that Harry can return to school this year.

Sirius put up a very good show of happiness on first hearing the news, wringing Harry’s hand and beaming just like the rest of us; soon, however, he is moodier and surlier than before, talking less to everybody, even Harry, and spending increasing amounts of time shut up in his mother’s room with Buckbeak.

“Don’t you go feeling guilty!” says Hermione sternly, after Harry has confided some of his feelings to her, Ron, and me while we scrub out a moldy cupboard on the third floor a few days later. I still can’t believe there’s more to do. “You belong at Hogwarts and Sirius knows it. Personally, I think he’s being selfish.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Hermione,” says Ron, frowning as he attempts to prize off a bit of mold that has attached itself firmly to his finger, “you wouldn’t want to be stuck inside this house without company.”

“He’ll have company!” says Hermione. “It’s headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, isn’t it? He just got his hopes up that Harry would be coming to live here with him.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” says Harry, wringing out his cloth. “He wouldn’t give me a straight answer when I asked him if I could.”

“Got to admit… I’m going more than a little stir crazy and I’ve been locked up in this house for a far shorter time than he is. I honestly can’t blame him for trying.” I say grimacing at my filthy rag.

“He just didn’t want to get his own hopes up even more,” says Hermione wisely. “And he probably felt a bit guilty himself, because I think a part of him was really hoping you’d be expelled. Then you’d both be outcasts together.”

“Come off it!” says Harry and Ron together, but Hermione merely shrugs.

“Suit yourselves. But I sometimes think Ron’s mum’s right, and Sirius gets confused about whether you’re you or your father, Harry.” Part of me agrees with Hermione though the other part of me can’t understand wanting someone that you like to get expelled. If it was Malfoy I’d be throwing a party around now.

“So you think he’s touched in the head?” says Harry heatedly.

“No, I just think he’s been very lonely for a long time,” says Hermione simply. I’m so not getting in the middle of this fight. Wisely keep your mouth shut Jamie.

At this point Molly enters the bedroom behind us. “Still not finished?” she says, poking her head into the cupboard.

“I thought you might be here to tell us to have a break!” says Ron bitterly. “D’you know how much mold we’ve got rid of since we arrived here?”

“You were so keen to help the Order,” snaps Molly, “you can do your bit by making headquarters fit to live in.”

“I feel like a house-elf,” grumbles Ron. Oh he just had to go and say that. I can’t believe he blundered himself into that one. I cringe and start inching away.

“Well, now that you understand what dreadful lives they lead, perhaps you’ll be a bit more active in S.P.E.W.!” says Hermione hopefully, as Molly leaves us to it again. “You know, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to show people exactly how horrible it is to clean all the time — we could do a sponsored scrub of Gryffindor common room, all proceeds to S.P.E.W., it would raise awareness as well as funds —”

“I’ll sponsor you to shut up about spew,” Ron mutters irritably, but only so Harry and I can hear him. I just grit my teeth trying to think about better things than the endless cleaning marathon that we have been forced to take part in.

* * *

I find myself thinking about returning to Hogwarts more and more as the end of the holidays approach. I can’t believe that I’m actually looking forward to having classes again. I hate some of my classes especially potions with Snape. I wonder how many classes of his I’ll actually be able to sit through. Ariana and Luka have taken to teasing me about becoming a bookworm since I’ve latched onto the Hogwarts idea so tightly.

In response I relay that I just wish to be outside and playing Quidditch again. It will be a treat just to leave this dusty, musty house, where half of the cupboards are still bolted shut and Kreacher wheezes insults out of the shadows as you pass, though was careful not to say any of this within earshot of Sirius.

The fact is that living at the headquarters of the anti-Voldemort movement is not nearly as interesting or exciting as I expected. Though members of the Order of the Phoenix come and go regularly, sometimes staying for meals, sometimes only for a few minutes’ whispered conversation, Molly makes sure that Harry and the rest of us are kept well out of earshot (whether Extendable or normal) and nobody, not even Sirius, seems to feel that we need to know anything more than we heard on the night of Harry’s arrival.

On the last day of holiday Ron, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Luka, Ariana, and I are hanging out in one of the upstairs drawing rooms that is actually cleaned out and habitable. Basically we’re hiding from Molly and any last minute chores that she would see fit to assign us. I feel like my fingers have bulked up on the muscles over the last month or so.

Maybe the workout from all this cleaning can replace cardio workout for Quidditch practice. If that’s the case then I’d never need to clean again! Ron comes back into the room holding a stack of letters. I quirk an eyebrow at that for he only left to go to the restroom.

“Forget where the loo was?” I joke at him. Ron sticks his tongue out at me before tossing one of the envelopes at my head.

“No stupid I ran into Sirius and he tossed these all off on me. Booklists have arrived.” He says. I catch the letter and look over the familiar green ink that scrawls out my name on the cover.

“Thank Merlin, I was thinking that they were going to be sending us to school with no books! Can you believe that? No books!” Luka cries giving a quick tug to his hair, and snatching his letter, like it was a trophy or lifeline. After a few seconds we start snickering at that. He gives us a dirty looks but merely adjusts his glasses, and starts ripping open the letter.

Once I start to see everyone else pulling open their letters I do the same, not really caring to see what’s on the new school item list. Inside is the usual two sheets of paper the first telling me that term starts on the first of September like always, and the second is going over the new required books for this year.

“Thank Merlin, only two new ones,” I say, reading the list. “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, by Miranda Goshawk and Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard. Any more of these books and my trunk will have to be magically enlarged to handle all the pages.” I huff.

Crack.

Fred and George Apparate right beside me, and all I do is lazily flick my gaze up to them. I’ve grown far too used to them appearing anywhere.

“We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard book,” says Fred conversationally.

“Because it means Dumbledore’s found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” says George.

“And about time too,” says Fred.

“What d’you mean?” Harry asks, jumping up to go over to them.

“Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the Extendable Ears a few weeks back,” Fred tells Harry and me, “and from what they were saying, Dumbledore was having real trouble finding anyone to do the job this year.”

“Not surprising, is it, when you look at what’s happened to the last four?” says George. I nod my head in grim agreement. Ever since we’ve come to Hogwarts we’ve had a new DADA instructor every single year.

“One sacked, one dead, one’s memory removed, and one locked in a trunk for nine months,” says Harry, counting them off on his fingers. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“What’s up with you, Ron?” asks Fred. Ron has this stupefied look on his face. I wave my hand in front of him, but he doesn’t even blink. Excited voices are starting to build in the room. Well I guess something good happened to people here.

“What’s the matter?” says Fred impatiently, moving around Ron to look over his shoulder at the parchment.

Fred’s mouth falls open too.

“Prefect?” he says, staring incredulously at the letter. “Prefect?” George leaps forward, seizes the envelope in Ron’s other hand, and turns it upside down. I see something scarlet and gold fall into George’s palm.

“No way,” says George in a hushed voice.

“There’s been a mistake,” says Fred, snatching the letter out of Ron’s grasp and holding it up to the light as though checking for a watermark. “No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect . . .” I raise my eyebrow, but there’s a grin present on my face.

“Good for you Ron.” I tell him with a slap to his back. That action finally jolts him out of his stupor. His eyes get even wider (if that’s even possible) and he starts gaping like a fish.

“Oh Ron! That’s wonderful, unexpected but wonderful.” Ariana says holding up her own letter, and staring down at her own shiny yellow badge. I push myself up from the floor and move over to her to get a better look. A large P is superimposed on the symbol of the Hufflepuff badger. My grin grows wider at the blond girl.

“Fantastic Ariana! You deserved this, you’re the most smashing Hufflepuff that I know.” I tell her. Ariana’s cheeks tint pink a little, but she pulls me in for a quick tight hug, which I return fervently. I release her to see the megawatt smile of my brother standing next to us.

I don’t even have to glance at the shiny blue badge on his chest to know that Luka had been made a prefect as well. “Obvious choice there. If anyone is going to out study the top studiers in this school it’d be you or Hermione.” I laugh, and give my brother a hug as well.

“Thanks Jame. I wasn’t sure you’d be all that impressed. Prefects aren’t exactly your favorite people at school. I roll my eyes at them.

“Listen you two, I dislike prefects for they’re always trying to get in my business. Now that I know three of them, there’s nothing to worry about anymore.” I say with a grin. Luka scoffs, and Ariana shakes her head at me but there’s a mischievous smile on her face.

“Make that four prefects Jamie, and don’t you think for one second that just because we’re your friends mean that we’re going to allow you to break school rules like they were never put there in the first place.” Hermione says from behind me. I spin around and take in the big P on top of the roaring Gryffindor lion. I smile at her and give her a quick hug.

“Whatever you say Mione. My one warning is to not let the power get to your head. If it ever does, well I’m sure there’s a few things that can be down to take your ego down a few pegs.” I say with a grin. She scowls at me and tries to swipe at me. Everyone is talking happily congratulating and chattering about what the new school year is going to be like with new added on responsibilities.

“Are you upset that you didn’t get the prefect’s badge?” Ginny asks coming up on my other side. I grin at the girl beside me, and she slowly returns it.

“The right girl got the badge Gin, Mione has worked hard for it. Besides, if it fell into my hands it would be corrupted for the power of pranking. Imagine all the stuff we could pull.” I say wistfully. We both sigh shiny eyed imagining the fun. “Anyway it would be something akin to cheating though. Its much more fun and challenging to have to skirt around the authority.”

“I think that you’ll have an in with Ron and Ariana. Luka and Hermione will stick to the rules too much.” Ginny says looking over at the four new laughing prefects. Fred and George look on the merriment with sickened looks on their faces. I can’t see Harry at the moment but I suppose that he is talking in the big group as well.

“So Jamie are you free of all those horrid responsibilities?” George asks me coming over to talk with Ginny and me.

“No such attachments on me. I have too much to worry about on my plate to handle already.” I mutter the last part.

“Great! I know there was someone in this family that has good sense to see through the shininess of responsibility.” Fred grins draping his arm over my shoulder.

“Stick with us kid, we’ll show you how to really live.” George smirks. Ginny rolls her eyes at the three of us, but I can see the smile still on her face.

“But still… what are we going to do about Ron?” Fred groans. “Prefect . . . ickle Ronnie the prefect . . .”

“Oh, Mum’s going to be revolting,” groans George. Suddenly the door opens, and Molly comes trundling into the room.

“Speak of the devil and she shall appear.” Fred says turning a few shades paler. I have to admit that that is some pretty scary timing on her part.

“Sirius informed me that the booklists have come at long last.” She says looking at everyone and their letters. She stops though seeing the megawatt grins on a few of our faces. Luka can’t seem to help himself; he rushes up to Molly and shows her the shiny Ravenclaw prefect badge on his chest.

“Look Molly! Look what I was able to get!” Luka says excitedly. The look on her face slowly goes from one of shock to one of extreme happiness.

“Fantastic Luka! Oh my dear boy!” She says grabbing my brother who is taller than her in a death grip. That doesn’t stop the smile that’s on my brother’s face. I smile in happiness at seeing my brother act to freely with Molly. It’s been a long time since he’s been that demonstrative with someone other than Ariana or me, it’s good to see to say the least.

“Ariana and Hermione got prefect as well.” Luka says happily, and before we can even blink Molly has both girls in a giant hug, that makes them squeak. I can’t help but snicker at that.

“Well this is fantastic three prefects…” Molly cries. “If you give the lists to me I’ll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while you’re packing. Ron, I’ll have to get you more pajamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can’t believe how fast you’re growing . . . what color would you like?”

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” says George, smirking.

“Match his what?” says Molly absently, still beaming at the now blushing kids.

“His badge,” says Fred, with the air of getting the worst over quickly. “His lovely shiny new prefect’s badge.”

Fred’s words take a moment to penetrate Molly’s preoccupation about pajamas, books, and new prefects.

“His . . . but . . . Ron, you’re not . . . ?”

Ron holds up his badge to show her. The scream that comes out of Molly causes me to slap my hands over my ears. Merlin that woman is high pitched!

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! Oh, Ron, how wonderful! A prefect! That’s everyone in the family!”

“What are Fred and I, next-door neighbors?” says George indignantly, as his mother pushes him aside and flings her arms around her youngest son.

“Wait until your father hears! Ron, I’m so proud of you, what wonderful news, you could end up Head Boy just like Bill and Percy, it’s the first step! Oh, what a thing to happen in the middle of all this worry, I’m just thrilled, oh Ronnie —”

Fred and George are both making loud retching noises behind her back but Molly does not notice; arms tight around Ron’s neck, she is kissing him all over his face, which has turned a brighter scarlet than his badge. I smirk into my hand so that I don’t get in trouble.

“Mum . . . don’t . . . Mum, get a grip . . .” he mutters, trying to push her away.

She lets go of him and says breathlessly, “Well, what will it be? We gave Percy an owl, but you’ve already got one, of course. Oh and Luka you too dear, I wouldn’t dare forget you.”

“W-what do you mean?” says Ron, looking as though he does not dare believe his ears.

“You’ve got to have a reward for this!” says Mrs. Weasley fondly. “How about a nice new set of dress robes?”

“We’ve already bought him some,” says Fred sourly, who looks as though he sincerely regrets this generosity.

“Or a new cauldron, Charlie’s old one’s rusting through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers —”

“Mum,” says Ron hopefully, “can I have a new broom?” Molly’s face falls slightly; broomsticks are expensive.

“Not a really good one!” Ron hastens to add. “Just — just a new one for a change . . .”

Mrs. Weasley hesitates, then smiles.

“Of course you can, Luka what about you?” She asks turning to my brother.

“I don’t need anything Molly.” Luka assures her with pink cheeks.

“Nonsense you just had a major achievement today.” Luka glances at me, and I shrug my shoulders. It’s up to him to decide whether he should let the Weasley’s get him something.

“Well… there is a book I’ve had my eye on for a while.” He says and Molly smiles. He and Molly talk for a moment about the book and she smiles and starts for the door.

“Well, I’d better get going if I’ve got a broom to buy too. I’ll see you all later. . . . Little Ronnie, a prefect! And don’t forget to pack your trunks. . . . A prefect . . . Oh, I’m all of a dither!”

She gives Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffles loudly, and bustles from the room. Fred and George exchange looks.

“You don’t mind if we don’t kiss you, do you, Ron?” says Fred in a falsely anxious voice.

“We could curtsy, if you like,” says George.

“Oh, shut up,” growls Ron, scowling at them.

“Or what?” says Fred, an evil grin spreading across his face. “Going to put us in detention?”

“I’d love to see him try,” sniggers George.

“He could if you don’t watch out!” snaps Hermione angrily, at which Fred and George burst out laughing and Ron mutters, “Drop it, Hermione.”

“We’re going to have to watch our step, George,” says Fred, pretending to tremble, “with these two on our case . . .”

“Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally over,” says George, shaking his head, and with another loud crack, the twins disapparate.

“Those two!” says Hermione furiously, staring up at the ceiling, through which we can now hear Fred and George roaring with laughter in the room upstairs. “Don’t pay any attention to them, Ron, they’re only jealous!”

“I don’t think they are,” says Ron doubtfully, also looking up at the ceiling. “They’ve always said only prats become prefects. . . . Still,” he adds on a happier note, “they’ve never had new brooms! I wish I could go with Mum and choose. . . . She’ll never be able to afford a Nimbus, but there’s the new Cleansweep out, that’d be great. . . . Yeah, I think I’ll go and tell her I like the Cleansweep, just so she knows . . .”

He races out of the room after his mum. I take a glance at Harry and see that there’s a dark disappointed look on his face. Well I guess that not everyone is happy with the arrival of school this year.

* * *

Down in the basement Molly has hung a scarlet banner over the heavily laden dinner table, which reads CONGRATULATIONS RON, LUKA, HERMIONE, AND ARIANA — NEW PREFECTS. She looks in a better mood than I have seen her all holiday.

“I thought we’d have a little party, not a sit-down dinner,” she tells us kids as we enter the room. “Your father and Bill are on their way, Ron, I’ve sent them both owls and they’re thrilled,” she adds, beaming.

Fred rolls his eyes.

Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley are already there and Mad-Eye Moody stumps in shortly after I got a butterbeer. Luka grinning widely as Kingsley complements him on his prefect position. I said hello to him, but that was about it. If there is one person here that I’m more awkward around than Sirius it is Kingsley.

“Oh, Alastor, I am glad you’re here,” says Molly brightly, as Mad-Eye shrugs off his traveling cloak. “We’ve been wanting to ask you for ages — could you have a look in the writing desk in the drawing room and tell us what’s inside it? We haven’t wanted to open it just in case it’s something really nasty.”

“No problem, Molly . . .” Moody’s electric-blue eye swivels upward and stares fixedly through the ceiling of the kitchen.

“Drawing room . . .” he growls, as the pupil contracts. “Desk in the corner? Yeah, I see it. . . . Yeah, it’s a boggart. . . . Want me to go up and get rid of it, Molly?”

“No, no, I’ll do it myself later,” beams Molly. “You have your drink. We’re having a little bit of a celebration, actually . . .” She gestures at the scarlet banner. “Fourth prefect in the family!” she says fondly, ruffling Ron’s hair. “Well I guess that it’s the fifth since Luka here got prefect for Ravenclaw.” She adds proudly. My brother blushes again at the mention that we are family.

I shift a bit in my chair. They act so much like our family, and seem to treat us like we’re theirs but we’re not. Frankly it’s a little confusing and a lot distressing. Sensing my internal conflict Ariana grasps my hand in a quick squeeze.

“Prefect, eh?” growls Moody, his normal eye on Ron and his magical eye swiveling around to gaze into the side of his head.

“Well, congratulations,” says Moody, still glaring at Ron with his normal eye, “authority figures always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn’t have appointed you . . .”

Ron looks rather startled at this view of the matter but is saved the trouble of responding by the arrival of his father and eldest brother. Molly is in such a good mood she does not even complain that they brought Mundungus with them too; he is wearing a long overcoat that seems oddly lumpy in unlikely places and declines the offer to remove it and put it with Moody’s traveling cloak.

“Well, I think a toast is in order,” says Arthur, when everyone has a drink. He raises his goblet. “To Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects, Ariana a new Hufflepuff prefect, and Luka a new Ravenclaw prefect!”

Ron, Hermione, Luka, and Ariana beam as everyone drinks to them and then applauds.

“I was never a prefect myself,” says Tonks brightly from behind me as everybody moves towards the table to help themselves to food. Her hair is tomato-red and waist length today; she looks like Ginny’s older sister. “My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary qualities.”

“Like what?” asks Ginny, who is choosing a baked potato.

“Like the ability to behave myself,” says Tonks. I laugh knowing that’s one of the reasons why I was not chosen and never would be.

“Sounds like some Gryffindor that I know.” Ariana murmurs, bumping me as we take our seats.

Ginny laughs; Hermione looks as though she does not know whether to smile or not and compromises by taking an extra large gulp of butterbeer and choking on it.

“What about you, Sirius?” Ginny asks, thumping Hermione on the back.

Sirius, who is right beside Harry, lets out his usual barklike laugh. “No one would have made me a prefect, I spent too much time in detention with James. Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge.”

“I think Dumbledore might have hoped that I would be able to exercise some control over my best friends,” says Lupin. “I need scarcely say that I failed dismally.”

Ron is rhapsodizing about his new broom to anybody who will listen. “. . . naught to seventy in ten seconds, not bad, is it? When you think the Comet Two Ninety’s only naught to sixty and that’s with a decent tailwind according to Which Broomstick?”

Hermione is talking very earnestly to Lupin about her view of elf rights. “I mean, it’s the same kind of nonsense as werewolf segregation, isn’t it? It all stems from this horrible thing wizards have of thinking they’re superior to other creatures . . .”

Mrs. Weasley and Bill are having their usual argument about Bill’s hair. “. . . getting really out of hand, and you’re so good-looking, it would look much better shorter, wouldn’t it, Jamie?”

“Oh — I dunno — I’m used to it being long.” I say, slightly alarmed at being asked my opinion; and slide away from them in the direction of Fred and George, who are huddled in a corner with Mundungus.

Mundungus stops talking when he sees me, but Fred winks and beckons me closer. “It’s okay,” he tells Mundungus, “we can trust Jamie, she’s one of our financial backers.”

“Look what Dung’s gotten us,” says George, holding out his hand to me. It is full of what looks like shriveled black pods. A faint rattling noise is coming from them, even though they are completely stationary.

“Venomous Tentacula seeds,” says George. “We need them for the Skiving Snackboxes but they’re a Class C Non-Tradeable Substance so we’ve been having a bit of trouble getting hold of them.”

“Ten Galleons the lot, then, Dung?” says Fred.

“Wiv all the trouble I went to to get ’em?” says Mundungus, his saggy, bloodshot eyes stretching even wider. “I’m sorry, lads, but I’m not taking a Knut under twenty.”

“Dung likes his little joke,” Fred says with a fake laugh.

“Yeah, his best one so far has been six Sickles for a bag of knarl quills,” says George.

“Be careful,” I warn them quietly.

“What?” says Fred. “Mum’s busy cooing over Prefect Ron, we’re okay.”

“But Moody could have his eye on you,” I point out making a gesture over my shoulder.

Mundungus looks nervously over his shoulder. “Good point, that,” he grunts. “All right, lads, ten it is, if you’ll take ’em quick.”

“Cheers, Harry!” says Fred delightedly, when Mundungus has emptied his pockets into the twins’ outstretched hands and scuttles off towards the food. “We’d better get these upstairs . . .”

I heave a sigh and run my hand over my face. This has been a long night. I can’t believe that we’ll be back on our way to school tomorrow. After hanging around with Luka, Ariana, and Hermione for a while. I decide that its time to call it a night. As I’m climbing the stairs I run into Harry. He looks dazed and a little worn out.

“How you holding up tonight Boy Wonder?” I question him bumping his shoulder with mine.

Harry releases a long sigh, and his shoulders slump. “Not one of my better nights that’s for sure.” He tells me wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I chuckle and shake my head.

“Its all right to be disappointed Harry.” I tell him as we climb to the first floor. We turn up the next staircase, and he eyes me warily.

“And you’re not?” He asks. I laugh at that.

“I tend to agree with Tonks and the twins. I just can’t seem to keep myself out of trouble. I never really even thought about it… can’t get disappointed about something you never really thought of.” I tell him. Harry chuckles and nods his head.

“I guess I should have expected that kind of response from you.” Harry tells me. We both come to an abrupt stop when we hear a noise on the landing. Harry raises a finger to his lips, and I nod my head. We tiptoe over to the drawing room door, and I’m brought back to first year at Hogwarts when we had first mastered this skill.

A lot has changed since we were that young. We hear sobbing coming from inside. “Hello?” Harry calls out.

“Hello? Seriously that’s the best that you got?” I hiss at him. Harry glares at me, and turns the knob, the door swinging open.

Someone is cowering against the dark wall, her wand in her hand, her whole body shaking with sobs. Sprawled on the dusty old carpet in a patch of moonlight, clearly dead, is Ron. My heart clenches in my chest, and it takes a moment for me to realize that Ron is still very much alive downstairs. Why would Molly possibly think about facing this boggart all by herself. We learned that the best way to face them is in a group!

“Molly?” I stutter.

“R-r-riddikulus!” Molly sobs, pointing her shaking wand at Ron’s body.

Crack.

Ron’s body turns into Bill’s, spread-eagled on his back, his eyes wide open and empty. Molly sobs harder than ever.

“R-riddikulus!” she sobs again.

Crack.

Arthur’s body replaces Bill’s, his glasses askew, a trickle of blood running down his face.

“No!” Molly moans. “No . . . riddikulus! Riddikulus! RIDDIKULUS!”

Crack. Dead twins. Crack. Dead Percy. Crack. Dead Jamie.

“Molly! I’m here I’m fine!” I shout trying to break through to the woman.

“Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!” shouts Harry, staring down at my dead body on the floor. “Let someone else —”

“What’s going on?” Lupin has come running into the room, closely followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along behind them. Lupin looks from Molly to the boggart shaped as my dead body on the floor and seems to understand in an instant. Pulling out his own wand he says, very firmly and clearly, “Riddikulus!”

My body vanishes. A silvery orb hangs in the air over the spot where it lain. Lupin waves his wand once more and the orb vanishes in a puff of smoke.

“Oh — oh — oh!” gulps Molly, and she breaks into a storm of crying, her face in her hands.

“Molly,” says Lupin bleakly, walking over to her, “Molly, don’t . . .” Next second she is sobbing her heart out on Lupin’s shoulder. I shift uncomfortably looking at the woman who has been treating me like her own daughter. I leave my spot from beside Harry seemingly unfrozen now to go over to them. Molly looks up from Lupin when she feels my hand land on her shoulder.

Her eyes are red rimmed and she has dark look to her. “Molly?” I say tentatively. A shuddering breath escapes her before she wraps her arms around me, and holds to her tightly. She pulls me close and starts a rocking motion, whether it is for me or for her.

“Molly, it was just a boggart,” Lupin says soothingly. “Just a stupid boggart . . .”

“I see them d-d-dead all the time!” Molly moans into my shoulder. “All the t-t-time! I d-d-dream about it . . .”

Sirius is staring at the patch of carpet where the boggart, pretending to be my body, was. Moody is looking at Harry, who avoids his gaze.

“D-d-don’t tell Arthur,” Molly is gulping now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. “I d-d-don’t want him to know. . . . Being silly . . .” Lupin hands her a handkerchief and she releases me to blow her nose.

“Jamie…Harry, I’m so sorry, what must you think of me?” she says shakily. “Not even able to get rid of a boggart . . .”

“Don’t be stupid,” says Harry, trying to smile.

“Are you okay Molly?” I ask her softly.

“I’ll be fine dear. Just worried about my family is all. A mother’s job…” She says cupping my cheek with her hand. She’s unable to get the glassy look out of her eye though.

“I’m just s-s-so worried,” she says, tears spilling out of her eyes again. “Half the f-f-family’s in the Order, it’ll b-b-be a miracle if we all come through this. . . . and P-P-Percy’s not talking to us. . . . What if something d-d-dreadful happens and we had never m-m-made up? And what’s going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, who’s g-g-going to look after Ron, Ginny, Luka, and J-Jamie?” She clutches my hand in hers again.

“Molly, that’s enough,” says Lupin firmly. “This isn’t like last time. The Order is better prepared, we’ve got a head start, we know what Voldemort’s up to —”

She gives a little squeak of fright at the sound of the name.

“Oh, Molly, come on, it’s about time you got used to hearing it — look, I can’t promise no one’s going to get hurt, nobody can promise that, but we’re much better off than we were last time, you weren’t in the Order then, you don’t understand, last time we were outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and they were picking us off one by one . . .”

I wince thinking of my parents and the others a part of it. “Don’t worry about Percy,” says Sirius abruptly. “He’ll come round. It’s a matter of time before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry’s going to be begging us to forgive them. And I’m not sure I’ll be accepting their apology,” he adds bitterly.

“And as for who’s going to look after Ron, Ginny, Jamie, and Luka if you and Arthur died,” says Lupin, smiling slightly, “what do you think we’d do, let them starve?”

Molly smiles tremulously. “Being silly,” she mutters again, mopping her eyes. After a few minutes she is able to get herself under control again.

“Molly?” I ask softly.

“Jamie. Harry. Off to bed you two. We’re all going to be up early in the morning, and it will be a long day.” She tells us ushering us out of the room, and up the stairs. That night I lay awake for a while listening to the slow breathing of the girls around me. The world is changing. We no longer live in the same times as the year before. I’m not quite sure that I’m looking forward to greeting it.

With a heavily troubled mind, sleep finally claims me for the night.


	7. Luna Lovegood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 7- Luna Lovegood

 

The next morning is absolute chaos. My sleep last night was interspersed with nightmares and panic attacks that had me waking up gasping for breath. Finally around six in the morning I abandoned the idea of sleeping and got up packing the rest of my trunk swiftly and securely. By the time Molly came around our room to wake the girls up I was pulling on the new blue jumper that she had gotten me yesterday.

All of my old ones were beginning to get a little worn around the edges from the amount of adventuring and activity I put them through. Breakfast is a crowded and hurried affair filled with half awake teenagers, and frazzled adults. Harry has yet to get up, and I’m sure that’s enough to drive Molly’s worry up the wall and back down its other side.

Its safe to say that there’s still a lot of commotion in the house since Molly believes that we’re going to be late and miss the train. I already had my run in with missing the train three years ago and I’m not too keen to miss it again.

Fred and George bewitched their trunks to fly downstairs to save the bother of carrying them, with the result that they hurtled straight into Ginny and knocked her down two flights of stairs into the hall; Mrs. Black and Molly are both screaming at the top of their voices.

“— COULD HAVE DONE HER A SERIOUS INJURY, YOU IDIOTS —”

“— FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BESMIRCHING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS —”

I stay with Ginny holding her hand while Molly patches her up. I’m relieved when the girl loses the dazed look in her eye. “I’m going to kill them.” Ginny says simply, jumping to her feet to go and batter the hell out of her brothers.

Once the majority of us were in the front hallway I spotted the number of wizards loitering about. “What’s going on?” I ask George who is sporting the beginnings of a rather good shiner. Fred pouts from beside him with a fat lip.

“That’s the guard. They’re here to ensure that Harry gets to the train safely and in one piece.” He mumbles casting a dirty look to the very satisfied looking Ginny on his other side.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have pushed me down two flights of stairs.” She snaps with a roll of her eyes.

“For the last time it wasn’t on purpose Gin, and it wasn’t us it was our trunks!” Fred whines wounded.

“If I had a knut every time you said that.” She mumbles.

“WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!” Molly bellows up the stairs and Ariana and Luka barrel down the stairs with their trunks. Hermione and Harry are not too far behind them. It’s another minute before Ron comes down for he keeps casting anxious glances at the new broom that he had gotten.

Mrs. Black’s portrait is howling with rage but nobody is bothering to close the curtains over her; all the noise in the hall is bound to rouse her again anyway.

“Harry, you’re to come with me and Tonks,” shouts Molly over the repeated screeches of “MUDBLOODS! SCUM! CREATURES OF DIRT!” “Leave your trunk and your owl, Alastor’s going to deal with the luggage. . . . Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!”

A bearlike black dog has appeared at Harry’s side as Harry clambers over the various trunks cluttering the hall to get to her.

“Oh honestly . . .” says Molly despairingly, “well, on your own head be it!”

“Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Luka you’re with me.” Arthur says and I wave goodbye to the group as they depart from the house to the station. Before I can wonder how exactly we’re going to get there, Lupin pops in front of us with a friendly smile on his face.

“That means that the rest of you lot are with me. I’m glad I got the fun group.” He says cheerily. I grin happy that he thinks that Fred, George, Ariana, and I are entertaining.

Sure enough we spend the twenty minute walk to King’s Cross station cracking jokes, and giving spot on impressions of various professors at Hogwarts. I seem to have Snape down pat, while Ariana gives a scarily good interpretation of Professor McGonagall. A shiver even went down my spine at how eerily alike the two seemed to be.

Soon the five of us are through the barrier, and I look around at the bustling crowded platform.

“Come along. I know where we’re supposed to meet up.” Lupin says nudging us along the platform a little.

Soon we come across the Weasleys with Harry, Hermione, and my brother. We join the group to make a downright party.

“No trouble?” growls Moody.

“Nothing,” says Lupin.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” says Moody. “That’s the second time he’s not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.”

“Well, look after yourselves,” says Lupin, shaking hands all round. He reacheds Harry last and gives him a clap on the shoulder. “You too, Harry. Be careful.”

“Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled,” says Moody, shaking Harry’s hand too. “And don’t forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”

“It’s been great meeting all of you,” says Tonks, hugging Hermione, Ginny, Ariana, and me. “We’ll see you soon, I expect.”

A warning whistle sounds; the students still on the platform starts hurrying onto the train.

“Quick, quick,” says Molly distractedly, hugging us at random and catching me twice. “Write . . . Be good. . . . If you’ve forgotten anything we’ll send it on. . . . Onto the train, now, hurry . . .”

I clamber onto the train behind Hermione and we hurry to crowd with the rest of the kids around a window. I look back onto the platform and I’m able to see a funny sight.

For one brief moment, the great black dog rears onto its hind legs and places its front paws on Harry’s shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoves Harry away towards the train door hissing, “For heaven’s sake act more like a dog, Sirius!”

Harry quickly climbs up onto the train and then turns to wave as well. The figures of Tonks, Lupin, Moody, Arthur, and Molly shrink rapidly but the black dog is bounding alongside the window, wagging its tail; blurred people on the platform are laughing to see it chasing the train, and then we turn the corner, and Sirius is gone.

“He shouldn’t have come with us,” says Hermione in a worried voice.

“Oh lighten up,” says Ron, “he hasn’t seen daylight for months, poor bloke.”

“Well,” says Fred, clapping his hands together, “can’t stand around chatting all day, we’ve got business to discuss with Lee. See you later,” and he and George disappear down the corridor to the right.

“Ariana and I have to go see some of our friends then duty…” Luka says trailing off as he turns down the corridor after the twins. Ariana gives me a sad smile and shrugs her shoulders.

“Maybe you were right about the responsibility thing…” She says then hurries off to catch up to Luka.

The train is gathering still more speed, so that the houses outside the window flash past and we sway where we stand.

“Shall we go and find a compartment, then?” Harry asks Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione exchange looks.

“Er,” says Ron.

“We’re — well — Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage,” Hermione says awkwardly. I shrug my shoulders since I already knew all this.

Ron isn’t looking at Harry; he seems to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand.

“Oh,” says Harry. “Right. Fine.”

“What am I, chopped skewrt liver?” I demand slightly insulted.

“I don’t think we’ll have to stay there all journey,” says Hermione quickly. “Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time.”

“Fine,” says Harry again. “Well, I-I might see you later, then.”

“Yeah, definitely,” says Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. “It’s a pain having to go down there, I’d rather — but we have to — I mean, I’m not enjoying it, I’m not Percy,” he finishes defiantly.

“I know you’re not,” says Harry and he grins. With that the pair of them drag their trunks off down the train after Luka and Ariana.

“Come on,” Ginny tells us, “if we get a move on we’ll be able to save them places.”

“Right,” says Harry, picking up Hedwig’s cage in one hand and the handle of his trunk in the other. I grab a firm grip on my trunk and give Dionysus a rueful look in the other. We struggle off down the corridor, peering through the glass-paneled doors into the compartments we pass, which are already full. I can not help noticing that a lot of people stared back at Harry with great interest and that several of them nudge their neighbors and point him out.

“Do you think they all believe the papers?” Harry asks angrily. I stiffen for a second, before thinking to myself that this is going to be a long day.

“I dunno Harry. I can’t control what people think. The people who think badly of you are not worth your time then.” I tell him hoping that he’ll accept that answer.

In the very last carriage we meet Neville Longbottom, Harry’s and my fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, Trevor.

“Hi, Harry,” he pants. “Hi, Ginny. . . . Hey, Jamie, Everywhere’s full. . . . I can’t find a seat . . .”

“What are you talking about?” says Ginny, who squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. “There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here —”

Neville mumbles something about not wanting to disturb anyone.

“Don’t be silly,” says Ginny, laughing, “she’s all right.”

I wonder what kind of a person would be called Loony, but follow Ginny into the compartment nonetheless.

“Hi, Luna,” says Ginny. “Is it okay if we take these seats?”

The girl beside the window looks up. She has straggly, waist-length, dirty-blond hair, very pale eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that give her a permanently surprised look. I know at once why Neville chose to pass this compartment by. The girl gives off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it is the fact that she has stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she has chosen to wear a necklace of butterbeer caps, or that she is reading a magazine upside down. Her eyes range over Neville, and me, and come to rest on Harry. She nods.

“Thanks,” says Ginny, smiling at her.

Harry and Neville stow the four trunks and two owls cages in the luggage rack and sit down. The girl called Luna watches them over her upside-down magazine, which is called The Quibbler. She does not seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stares and stares at Harry, who has taken the seat opposite her and now looks uncomfortable for doing so.

“Had a good summer, Luna?” Ginny asks.

“Yes,” says Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. “Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You’re Harry Potter,” she adds.

“I know I am,” says Harry.

Neville chuckles. Luna turns her pale eyes upon him instead.

“And I don’t know who you are.” She says to Neville.

“I’m nobody,” says Neville hurriedly.

“No you’re not,” says Ginny sharply. “Neville Longbottom — Luna Lovegood. Luna’s in my year, but in Ravenclaw.”

“I’m Merlin.” I say quickly with a smile, not unkindly mind you. I find all of this rather amusing than strange. She quirks her head at me and I just keep my easy grin on my face.

“You have an above average dose of Merlin in you than most, but the Arthur in you outshines everything the most.” She says in a strangely serious tone.

After a few seconds of silence Ginny speaks. “That’s Jamie Pendragon Luna, she lives me. You know her brother Luka, he’s in Ravenclaw as well.”

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” says Luna in a singsong voice. She raises her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and falls silent. Harry and Neville look at each other with their eyebrows raised. I just feel floored, even though she probably already knew who I was. Ginny suppresses a giggle.

The train rattles onward, speeding us out into open country. It is an odd, unsettled sort of day; one moment the carriage is full of sunlight and the next we are passing beneath ominously gray clouds.

“Guess what I got for my birthday?” says Neville.

“Another Remembrall?” says Harry, remembering the marblelike device Neville’s grandmother had sent him in an effort to improve his abysmal memory.

“No,” says Neville, “I could do with one, though, I lost the old one ages ago. . . . No, look at this . . .”

He digs the hand that is not keeping a firm grip on Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little bit of rummaging pulls out what appears to be a small gray cactus in a pot, except that it is covered with what looks like boils rather than spines.

“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” he says proudly.

Harry stares at the thing. It is pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased internal organ.

“It’s really, really rare,” says Neville, beaming. “I don’t know if there’s one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can’t wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I’m going to see if I can breed from it.”

“Cool Neville.” I say even though I haven’t the foggiest idea of what its supposed to be, and I’m rather good at Herbology. Meaning that its one of the few classes that I want to climb the highest tower of Hogwarts and throw myself from it. Maybe they are right, I do have a fair flair for the dramatic.

“Does it — er — do anything?” Harry asks.

“Loads of stuff!” says Neville proudly. “It’s got an amazing defensive mechanism — hold Trevor for me . . .”

I make a face, and start inching as far away from Neville as I can. Years of being around the accident prone boy have taught me to be wary.

He dumps the toad into Harry’s lap and takes a quill from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood’s popping eyes appear over the top of her upside-down magazine again, watching what Neville is doing. Neville holds the Mimbulus mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue between his teeth, chooses his spot, and gives the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.

Liquid squirts from every boil on the plant, thick, stinking, dark-green jets of it; they hit the ceiling, the windows, and spatter Luna Lovegood’s magazine. Ginny, who flings her arms up in front of her face just in time, merely looks as though she is wearing a slimy green hat, but Harry, whose hands have been busy preventing the escape of Trevor, receives a face full. It smells like rancid manure. Luckily I had managed to shield my head so my shirt had gotten all of the damage. I make a face at it.

Neville, whose face and torso are also drenched, shakes his head to get the worst out of his eyes.

“S-sorry,” he gasps. “I haven’t tried that before. . . . Didn’t realize it would be quite so . . . Don’t worry, though, Stinksap’s not poisonous,” he adds nervously, as Harry spits a mouthful onto the floor.

At that precise moment the door of our compartment slides open. “Oh . . . hello, Harry,” says a nervous voice. “Um . . . bad time?”

A very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair is standing in the doorway smiling at him: Cho Chang, the Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. I scoff and roll my eyes. This is just wonderful.

“Oh . . . hi,” says Harry blankly.

“Um . . .” says Cho. “Well . . . just thought I’d say hello . . . ’bye then.”

She closes the door again, rather pink in the face, and departs. Harry slumped back in his seat and groans. Great now I’ll have to deal with an even more upset Harry now.

“Never mind,” says Ginny bracingly. “Look, we can get rid of all this easily.” She pulls out her wand. “Scourgify!”

The Stinksap vanishes. “Ginny you are my favorite person ever.” I say with a big grin, wrapping the girl up in a hug. She rolls her eyes, but the smile on her face shows that she’s pleased with herself.

“Sorry,” says Neville again, in a small voice.

“No worries the horrid smell will clean out in a little while.” I tell him shoving the window open a little.

Ron and Hermione do not turn up for nearly an hour, by which time the food trolley has already gone by. Harry, Ginny, Neville, and I finish our Pumpkin Pasties and are busy swapping Chocolate Frog cards when the compartment door slides open and they walk in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.

“I’m starving,” says Ron, stowing Pigwidgeon next to Hedwig, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him. He rips open the wrapper, bites off the Frog’s head, and leans back with his eyes closed as though he has had a very exhausting morning.

“Well, there are two fifth-year prefects from each House,” says Hermione, looking thoroughly disgruntled as she takes her seat. “Boy and girl from each.”

“And guess who’s a Slytherin prefect?” says Ron, still with his eyes closed.

“Malfoy,” replies Harry at once.

“’Course,” says Ron bitterly, stuffing the rest of the Frog into his mouth and taking another.

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” says Hermione viciously. “How she got to be a prefect when she’s thicker than a concussed troll . . .” I wince hating Parkinson just as much as anyone else.

“Who’s Hufflepuff besides Ariana?” Harry asks.

“Ernie Macmillan and Ariana,” says Ron thickly.

“And Luka and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,” says Hermione. I nod my head thinking about all he prefects that I can possibly get around.

“We’re supposed to patrol the corridors every so often,” he tells us, “and we can give out punishments if people are misbehaving. I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something . . .”

“You’re not supposed to abuse your position, Ron!” says Hermione sharply.

“Yeah, right, because Malfoy won’t abuse it at all,” says Ron sarcastically.

“So you’re going to descend to his level?”

“No, I’m just going to make sure I get his mates before he gets mine.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron —”

“I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates writing,” says Ron happily. He lowers his voice to Goyle’s low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look of pained concentration, mimes writing in midair. “I . . . must . . . not . . . look . . . like . . . a . . . baboon’s . . . backside . . .”

Everyone laughs, but nobody laughs harder than Luna Lovegood. She lets out a scream of mirth that causes Hedwig and Dionysus to wake up and flap their wings indignantly and Crookshanks to leap up into the luggage rack, hissing. She laughs so hard that her magazine slips out of her grasp, slides down her legs, and onto the floor.

“That was funny!”

Her prominent eyes swim with tears as she gasps for breath, staring at Ron. Utterly nonplussed, he looks around at the rest of us, who are now laughing at the expression on Ron’s face and at the ludicrously prolonged laughter of Luna Lovegood, who is rocking backward and forward, clutching our sides.

“Are you taking the mickey?” says Ron, frowning at her.

“Baboon’s . . . backside!” she chokes, holding her ribs.

Everyone else is watching Luna laughing, but Harry, glances at the magazine on the floor, noticing something that makes him dive for it. I watch him in curiosity. Upside down it was hard to tell what the picture on the front is, but I now realize it is a fairly bad cartoon of Cornelius Fudge; I only recognize him because of the lime-green bowler hat. One of Fudge’s hands is clenched around a bag of gold; the other hand is throttling a goblin. The cartoon is captioned: HOW FAR WILL FUDGE GO TO GAIN GRINGOTTS?

Beneath this are listed the titles of other articles inside the magazine.

CORRUPTION IN THE QUIDDITCH LEAGUE:

How the Tornados Are Taking Control

 

SECRETS OF THE ANCIENT RUNES REVEALED

 

SIRIUS BLACK: Villain or Victim?

“Can I have a look at this?” Harry asks Luna eagerly. She nods, still gazing at Ron, breathless with laughter. I decide to not look further because I’ve read the Quibbler before and it hardly ever makes sense. It did come in handy a few times though for pranks against Luka. I would take sections of the Quibblers’ odder articles and paste them into his books.

He was livid but it was always entertaining. After a few minutes Harry puts down the magazine.

“Anything good in there?” asks Ron as Harry closes the magazine.

“Of course not,” says Hermione scathingly, before Harry can answer, “The Quibbler’s rubbish, everyone knows that.”

“Excuse me,” says Luna; her voice has suddenly lost its dreamy quality. “My father’s the editor.”

“I — oh,” stutters Hermione, looking embarrassed. “Well . . . it’s got some interesting . . . I mean, it’s quite . . .”

“I’ll have it back, thank you,” says Luna coldly, and leaning forward she snatching it out of Harry’s hands. Rifling through it to page fifty-seven, she turns it resolutely upside down again and disappears behind it, just as the compartment door opens for the third time.

I look around; sighing for I expected this, but that does not make the sight of Draco Malfoy smirking at us from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle any more enjoyable.

“What?” I snap, before Malfoy can open his mouth.

“Yeah Malfoy.” Harry growls.

“Manners, Potter, or I’ll have to give you a detention, and Dumbledore isn’t here to save you Pendragon,” drawls Malfoy, whose sleek blond hair and pointed chin are just like his father’s. “You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.”

“Yeah,” says Harry, “but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”

Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and I laugh. Malfoy’s lip curls.

“Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?” he asks.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” says Hermione sharply.

“I seem to have touched a nerve,” says Malfoy, smirking. “Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because I’ll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.”

“Get out!” says Hermione, standing up. I keep my hands gripped tightly in front of me. I so want to get up and smack that pompous look off his face, but unfortunately the universe sees fit that my life sucks as bad as possible, giving Malfoy some power over me. This day blows.

Sniggering, Malfoy gives Harry a last malicious look and departs, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering in his wake. Hermione slams the compartment door behind them and turns to look at Harry and me, who know at once that she, like us, registered what Malfoy said and been just as unnerved by it.

“Chuck us another Frog,” says Ron, who has clearly noticed nothing. I grit my teeth knowing that we can’t talk freely when Luna and Neville are here.

This seriously sucks. The weather remains undecided as we travel farther and farther north. Rain spatters the windows in a halfhearted way, then the sun puts in a feeble appearance before clouds drift over it once more. When darkness falls and lamps come on inside the carriages, Luna rolls up The Quibbler, puts it carefully away in her bag, and takes to staring at everyone in the compartment instead.

I am sitting with my forehead pressed against the train window, trying to get a first distant glimpse of Hogwarts, but it is a moonless night and the rain-streaked window is grimy.

“We’d better change,” says Hermione at last. She and Ron pin their prefect badges carefully to their chests. I see Ron checking how it looks in the black window. I roll my eyes at him, and see Harry hunch down lower in his seat.

Excited chatter started up again in the compartment once everyone was changed into their school robes.

At last the train begins to slow down and we heard the usual racket up and down it as everybody scrambles to get their luggage and pets assembled, ready for departure. Ron and Hermione are supposed to supervise all this; they disappear from the carriage again, leaving us to look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon.

“I’ll carry that owl, if you like,” says Luna to Harry, reaching out for Pigwidgeon as Neville stows Trevor carefully in an inside pocket.

“Oh — er — thanks,” says Harry, handing her the cage and hoisting Hedwig’s more securely into his arms. I glance down a Di as he hoots softly at Hedwig, who gives a returning hoot. I look at the two of them more closely then Hedwig. There’s something different about her, but I just can’t place it…

We shuffle out of the compartment feeling the first sting of the night air on our faces as we join the crowd in the corridor. Slowly we move towards the doors. I can smell the pine trees that line the path down to the lake. I step down onto the platform and look around, listening for the familiar call of “Firs’ years over here . . . firs’ years . . .”

But it does not come. Instead a quite different voice, a brisk female one, is calling, “First years line up over here, please! All first years to me!”

A lantern comes swinging towards us and by its light I see the prominent chin and severe haircut of Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who took over Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a while the previous year. That can’t be a good sign.

“Where’s Hagrid?” he says out loud.

“I don’t know,” says Ginny, “but we’d better get out of the way, we’re blocking the door.”

“Oh yeah . . .” We become separated from Ginny as we move off along the platform and out through the station.

We look around for Ron or Hermione, wanting to know what they think about the reappearance of Professor Grubbly-Plank, but neither of them is anywhere near us, so we allowed ourselves to be shunted forwards onto the dark rain-washed road outside Hogsmeade station.

Here stand the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches that always take the students above first year up to the castle. Harry looks shocked and I give him a weird look. “What’s up?” I ask him worriedly.

“D-do you see that? The carriages aren’t horseless anymore.” Harry tells me. I look at the carriages and squint this time, still unable to make anything out.

“Are you okay Harry? I don’t see anything there…” I say carefully not wanting to set him off.

“But— they’re there!” He says softly. I give him a worried look but don’t say anything else.

“Where’s Pig?” says Ron’s voice, right behind us.

“That Luna girl was carrying him,” says Harry, turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid. “Where d’you reckon —”

“— Hagrid is? I dunno,” says Ron, sounding worried. “He’d better be okay . . .”

A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson, are pushing some timid-looking second years out of the way so that they can get a coach to themselves. I don’t worry too much though, for Ariana appears to sooth and help them out. Seconds later Hermione emerges panting from the crowd.

“Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first year back there, I swear I’m going to report him, he’s only had his badge three minutes and he’s using it to bully people worse than ever. . . . Where’s Crookshanks?”

“Ginny’s got him,” I say. “There she is . . .” Ginny just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks.

“Thanks,” says Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. “Come on, let’s get a carriage together before they all fill up . . .”

“I haven’t got Pig yet!” Ron says, but Hermione is already heading off towards the nearest unoccupied coach. I follow behind her with Ginny. After a minute or two Ron climbs in the carriage with Luna following behind him. Harry brings up the rear with a disturbed look on his face.

“Welcome back to Hogwarts.” I mutter under my breath, as the carriage lurches forward towards the castle. At least it’s not raining.


	8. The Sorting Hat's New Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 8- The Sorting Hat’s New Song

“Did everyone see that Grubbly-Plank woman?” asks Ginny. “What’s she doing back here? Hagrid can’t have left, can he?”

“I’ll be quite glad if he has,” says Luna. “He isn’t a very good teacher, is he?”

“Yes, he is!” says Harry, Ron, Ginny, and I angrily.

Harry glares at Hermione; she clears her throat and quickly says, “Erm . . . yes . . . he’s very good.”

“Well, we think he’s a bit of a joke in Ravenclaw,” says Luna, unfazed.

“You’ve got a rubbish sense of humor then,” Ron snaps, as the wheels below us creaked over a bump.

“Leave it Ron. Ravenclaws don’t like anything that doesn’t come out of a book when it comes to education.” I tell him, casting a dirty look at Luna. Its one thing to be a little odd, its another to be mean to one of the greatest people that I know.

Luna does not seem perturbed by Ron’s rudeness; on the contrary, she simply watches him for a while.

Rattling and swaying, the carriages move in convoy up the road. When we pass between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the gates to the school grounds, I lean forward to try and see whether there are any lights on in Hagrid’s cabin by the Forbidden Forest, but the grounds are in complete darkness. Hogwarts Castle, however, looms ever closer: a towering mass of turrets, jet-black against the dark sky, here and there a window blazing fiery bright above us.

The carriages jingle to a halt near the stone steps leading up to the oak front doors and Harry gets out of the carriage first. When I finally get a chance to climb out of the carriage and stretch my legs a bit, Harry is looking more dejected than ever.

“Still no sign of Hagrid is there?” I say softly. Harry heaves a sigh and shakes his head.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. Everything’s changing Jamie. If Hagrid’s gone now what are we going to do?” Harry asks a tad worriedly.

“What we always do, stumble our way through the year and hope that something disastrous doesn’t happen, or have someone try and kill us.” I say simply. So simply in fact that Harry lets out a laugh.

“Are you coming or what?” says Ron from in front of us.

“Oh . . . yeah,” says Harry quickly, and we join the crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the castle.

The entrance hall is ablaze with torches and echoing with footsteps as the students cross the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.

The four long House tables in the Great Hall are filling up under the starless black ceiling, which is just like the sky we can glimpse through the high windows. Candles float in midair all along the tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who are dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly to one another, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other Houses, eyeing one another’s new haircuts and robes. Again Harry and I notice people putting their heads together to whisper as he passes. This is going to be a long year, I can just tell.

Luna drifts away from us at the Ravenclaw table where I can see my brother laughing with friends. The moment we reach Gryffindor’s, Ginny is hailed by some fellow fourth years and leaves to sit with them; Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and I find seats together about halfway down the table between Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost, and Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of whom give Harry airy, overly friendly greetings that make me quite sure they stopped talking about him a split second before. I look over the students’ heads to the staff table that runs along the top wall of the Hall.

“He’s not there.” I say with dreadful certainty. Ron and Hermione scan the staff table too, though there is no real need; Hagrid’s size makes him instantly obvious in any lineup.

“He can’t have left,” says Ron, sounding slightly anxious.

“Of course he hasn’t,” says Harry firmly.

“You don’t think he’s . . . hurt, or anything, do you?” says Hermione uneasily.

“No,” says Harry at once.

“Maybe.” I add unsurely.

“But where is he, then?”

There is a pause, then Harry says very quietly, so that Neville, Parvati, and Lavender can not hear, “Maybe he’s not back yet. You know — from his mission — the thing he was doing over the summer for Dumbledore.”

“Yeah . . . yeah, that’ll be it,” says Ron, sounding reassured, but Hermione bites her lip, looking up and down the staff table as though hoping for some conclusive explanation of Hagrid’s absence.

“Who’s that?” she says sharply, pointing towards the middle of the staff table.

My eyes follow hers. They land first upon Professor Dumbledore, sitting in his high-backed golden chair at the center of the long staff table, wearing deep-purple robes scattered with silvery stars and a matching hat. Dumbledore’s head is inclined towards the woman sitting next to him, who is talking into his ear. She looks, like somebody’s maiden aunt: squat, with short, curly, mouse-brown hair in which she has placed a horrible pink Alice band that matches the fluffy pink cardigan she wears over her robes. Then she turns her face slightly to take a sip from her goblet and I groan cursing my existence upon seeing, a pallid, toadlike face and a pair of prominent, pouchy eyes.

“No… is it too late to request Lockhart back?” I groan down into my empty plate miserably.

“It’s that Umbridge woman!” Harry cries.

“Who?” says Hermione.

“The devil incarnate.” I moan, thinking about banging my head against the table. I’ve sat through too many galas with that woman to know that she is one of the most annoying people in the entire planet.

“She was at my hearing, she works for Fudge!” Harry says.

“Nice cardigan,” says Ron, smirking. It will only get worse.

“She works for Fudge?” Hermione repeats, frowning. “What on earth’s she doing here, then?”

“Dunno . . .”

Hermione scans the staff table, her eyes narrow. “No,” she mutters, “no, surely not . . .”

I do not understand what she is talking about but do not ask; my attention is caught by Professor Grubbly-Plank who has just appeared behind the staff table; she works her way along to the very end and takes the seat that ought to have been Hagrid’s. That means that the first years must have crossed the lake and reached the castle, and sure enough, a few seconds later, the doors from the entrance hall open. A long line of scared-looking first years enter, led by Professor McGonagall, who is carrying a stool on which sits an ancient wizard’s hat, heavily patched and darned with a wide rip near the frayed brim.

I remember that old hat. I watch as it passes with an odd amount of respect and fear. It is far greater of an object then people think.

The buzz of talk in the Great Hall fades away. The first years line up in front of the staff table facing the rest of the students, and Professor McGonagall places the stool carefully in front of them, then stands back. I cast my eye over the hall and catch Ariana’s eye from the Hufflepuff table. She has an amused look on her face.

The first years’ faces glow palely in the candlelight. A small boy right in the middle of the row looks as though he is trembling.

The whole school waits with bated breath. Then the rip near the hat’s brim opens wide like a mouth and the Sorting Hat bursts into song:

In times of old when I was new

And Hogwarts barely started

The founders of our noble school

Thought never to be parted:

United by a common goal,

They had the selfsame yearning,

To make the world’s best magic school

And pass along their learning.

“Together we will build and teach!”

The four good friends decided

And never did they dream that they

Might someday be divided,

For were there such friends anywhere

As Slytherin and Gryffindor?

Unless it was the second pair

Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?

So how could it have gone so wrong?

How could such friendships fail?

Why, I was there and so can tell

The whole sad, sorry tale.

Said Slytherin, “We’ll teach just those

Whose ancestry is purest.”

Said Ravenclaw, “We’ll teach those whose

Intelligence is surest.”

Said Gryffindor, “We’ll teach all those

With brave deeds to their name.”

Said Hufflepuff, “I’ll teach the lot,

And treat them just the same.”

These differences caused little strife

When first they came to light,

For each of the four founders had

A House in which they might

Take only those they wanted, so,

For instance, Slytherin

Took only pure-blood wizards

Of great cunning, just like him,

And only those of sharpest mind

Were taught by Ravenclaw

While the bravest and the boldest

Went to daring Gryffindor.

Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest,

And taught them all she knew,

Thus the Houses and their founders

Retained friendships firm and true.

So Hogwarts worked in harmony

For several happy years,

But then discord crept among us

Feeding on our faults and fears.

The Houses that, like pillars four,

Had once held up our school,

Now turned upon each other and,

Divided, sought to rule.

And for a while it seemed the school

Must meet an early end,

What with dueling and with fighting

And the clash of friend on friend

And at last there came a morning

When old Slytherin departed

And though the fighting then died out

He left us quite downhearted.

And never since the founders four

Were whittled down to three

Have the Houses been united

As they once were meant to be.

And now the Sorting Hat is here

And you all know the score:

I sort you into Houses

Because that is what I’m for,

But this year I’ll go further,

Listen closely to my song:

Though condemned I am to split you

Still I worry that it’s wrong,

Though I must fulfill my duty

And must quarter every year

Still I wonder whether Sorting

May not bring the end I fear.

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,

The warning history shows,

For our Hogwarts is in danger

From external, deadly foes

And we must unite inside her

Or we’ll crumble from within.

I have told you, I have warned you. . . .

Let the Sorting now begin.

 

The hat becomes motionless once more; applause breaks out, though it is punctured, for the first time in my memory, with muttering and whispers. All across the Great Hall students are exchanging remarks with their neighbors and I, clapping along with everyone else, knew exactly what they are talking about.

“Branched out a bit this year, hasn’t it?” says Ron, his eyebrows raised.

“Too right it has,” says Harry.

“At least its different this year.” I shrug, but try to cast out the unsettling feeling it left in its wake.

The Sorting Hat usually confines itself to describing the different qualities looked for by each of the four Hogwarts Houses and its own role in sorting them; I can not remember it ever trying to give the school advice before.

“I wonder if it’s ever given warnings before?” says Hermione, sounding slightly anxious.

“Yes, indeed,” says Nearly Headless Nick knowledgeably, leaning across Neville towards her (Neville winces, it is very uncomfortable to have a ghost lean through you). “The hat feels itself honor-bound to give the school due warning whenever it feels —”

But Professor McGonagall, who is waiting to read out the list of first years’ names, is giving the whispering students the sort of look that scorches. Nearly Headless Nick places a see-through finger to his lips and sits primly upright again as the muttering comes to an abrupt end. With a last frowning look that sweeps the four House tables, Professor McGonagall lowers her eyes to her long piece of parchment and calls out,

“Abercrombie, Euan.”

The terrified-looking boy I noticed earlier stumbles forward and puts the hat on his head; it is only prevented from falling right down to his shoulders by his very prominent ears. The hat considers for a moment, then the rip near the brim opens again and shouts, “GRYFFINDOR!”

I clap loudly with the rest of Gryffindor House as Euan Abercrombie staggers to our table and sits down, looking as though he would like very much to sink through the floor and never be looked at again.

Slowly the long line of first years thins; in the pauses between the names and the Sorting Hat’s decisions, I can hear Ron’s stomach rumbling loudly. Finally, “Zeller, Rose” is sorted into Hufflepuff, and Professor McGonagall picks up the hat and stool and marches them away as Professor Dumbledore rises to his feet.

“To our newcomers,” says Dumbledore in a ringing voice, his arms stretched wide and a beaming smile on his lips, “welcome! To our old hands — welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!”

There is an appreciative laugh and an outbreak of applause as Dumbledore sits down neatly and throws his long beard over his shoulder so as to keep it out of the way of his plate — for food has appeared out of nowhere, so that the five long tables are groaning under joints and pies and dishes of vegetables, bread, sauces, and flagons of pumpkin juice.

“Excellent,” says Ron, with a kind of groan of longing, and he seizes the nearest plate of chops and begins piling them onto his plate, watched wistfully by Nearly Headless Nick. I grab food as well because the small amount of candy had on the train wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy me in the long run.

“What were you saying before the Sorting?” Hermione asks the ghost. “About the hat giving warnings?”

“Oh yes,” says Nick, who seems glad of a reason to turn away from Ron, who is now eating roast potatoes with almost indecent enthusiasm. “Yes, I have heard the hat give several warnings before, always at times when it detects periods of great danger for the school. And always, of course, its advice is the same: Stand together, be strong from within.”

“Ow kunnit nofe skusin danger ifzat?” says Ron. His mouth is so full I think it is quite an achievement for him to make any noise at all, though terribly disgusting.

“I beg your pardon?” says Nearly Headless Nick politely, while Hermione looks revolted. Ron gives an enormous swallow and says, “How can it know if the school’s in danger if it’s a hat?”

“I have no idea,” says Nearly Headless Nick. “Of course, it lives in Dumbledore’s office, so I daresay it picks things up there.”

“And it wants all the Houses to be friends?” says Harry, looking over at the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy is holding court. “Fat chance.”

I can’t help but agree with my friend there. The Slytherins are so closed minded and mean spirited that there would be no working with them rationally. If there are any good ones there, then I’m sure they’re terrified into silence or acting bad as well.

“Well, now, you shouldn’t take that attitude,” says Nick reprovingly. “Peaceful cooperation, that’s the key. We ghosts, though we belong to separate Houses, maintain links of friendship. In spite of the competitiveness between Gryffindor and Slytherin, I would never dream of seeking an argument with the Bloody Baron.”

“Only because you’re terrified of him,” says Ron.

Nearly Headless Nick looks highly affronted.

“Terrified? I hope I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, have never been guilty of cowardice in my life! The noble blood that runs in my veins —”

“What blood?” asks Ron. “Surely you haven’t still got — ?”

“It’s a figure of speech!” says Nearly Headless Nick, now so annoyed his head is trembling ominously on his partially severed neck. “I assume I am still allowed to enjoy the use of whichever words I like, even if the pleasures of eating and drinking are denied me! But I am quite used to students poking fun at my death, I assure you!”

“Nick, he wasn’t really laughing at you!” says Hermione, throwing a furious look at Ron.

“Come on Nick, Ron’s an idiot don’t listen to him.” I say trying to sooth the ghost’s feelings.

Unfortunately, Ron’s mouth is packed to exploding point again and all he can manage is “node iddum eentup sechew,” which Nick does not seem to think constitutes an adequate apology. Rising into the air, he straightens his feathered hat and sweeps away from us to the other end of the table, coming to rest between the Creevey brothers, Colin and Dennis.

“Well done, Ron,” snaps Hermione.

“What?” says Ron indignantly, having managed, finally, to swallow his food. “I’m not allowed to ask a simple question?”

“Oh forget it,” says Hermione irritably, and the pair of them spend the rest of the meal in huffy silence. I focus on eating the rest of my food in order to combat the awkward silence.

When all the students have finished eating and the noise level in the hall is starting to creep upward again, Dumbledore gets to his feet once more. Talking ceases immediately as all turn to face the headmaster. I am feeling pleasantly drowsy now. My four-poster bed is waiting somewhere above, wonderfully warm and soft. . . .

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore. “First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — and a few of our older students ought to know by now too.” (Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I exchange smirks.)

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door.

“We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

A part of me dies on the inside. Why, why does she have to be teaching a class that I actually like? Its rest assured that with my temper and her annoying attitude that I will be learning absolutely nothing in that class this year.

There is a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause during which Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I exchange slightly panicked looks; Dumbledore did not say for how long Grubbly-Plank would be teaching.

Plus Umbridge is pretty much the end of the world. I pity my brother for wanting to grow up and work with her and people like her.

Dumbledore continues, “Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

He breaks off, looking inquiringly at Professor Umbridge. As she is not much taller standing than sitting, there is a moment when nobody understands why Dumbledore has stopped talking, but then Professor Umbridge says, “Hem, hem,” and it becomes clear that she has got to her feet and is intending to make a speech.

Dumbledore only looks taken aback for a moment, then he sits back down smartly and looks alertly at Professor Umbridge as though he desires nothing better than to listen to her talk. (Wrong choice! Wrong choice!) Other members of staff are not as adept at hiding their surprise. Professor Sprout’s eyebrows have disappeared into her flyaway hair, and Professor McGonagall’s mouth is as thin as I have ever seen it. (If not more!) No new teacher has ever interrupted Dumbledore before. Many of the students are smirking; this woman obviously does not know how things are done at Hogwarts.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Professor Umbridge simpers, “for those kind words of welcome.”

Her voice is high-pitched, breathy, and little-girlish and again, I feel a powerful rush of dislike, I loath everything about her, from her stupid voice to her fluffy pink cardigan. She gives another little throat-clearing cough (“Hem, hem”) and continues: “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!” She smiles, revealing very pointed teeth. “And to see such happy little faces looking back at me!”

I glance around. None of the faces I can see looked happy; on the contrary, they all look rather taken aback at being addressed as though they are five years old. I cast a look at my brother and manage to catch his eye. The sickened look on Luka’s face tells me that he agrees with my on her horrendousness.

I mouth for him to kill me now, and he nods at me grimly. There are a few things that the Pendragon twins can agree on and it’s the annoyingness of people.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!”

“Not very likely.” I mutter to Harry and Ron’s amusement, and Hermione badly concealed smile. Hermione hates people talking down to her.

Students exchange looks at this; some of them are barely concealing grins. “I’ll be her friend as long as I don’t have to borrow that cardigan,” Parvati whispers to Lavender, and both of them lapse into silent giggles.

Professor Umbridge clears her throat again (“Hem, hem”), but when she continues, some of the breathiness has vanished from her voice. She sounds much more businesslike and now her words have a dull learned-by-heart sound to them.

“The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

Professor Umbridge pauses here and makes a little bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bow back. Professor McGonagall’s dark eyebrows have contracted so that she looks positively hawklike, and I distinctly see her exchange a significant glance with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gives another little “Hem, hem” and goes on with her speech.

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation . . .”

I find myself drifting off despite my efforts to pay attention. I always get this way around people like this, and it seems like others feel the same way. The quiet that always fills the Hall when Dumbledore is speaking is breaking up as students put their heads together, whispering and giggling. Over at the Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang is chatting animatedly with her friends. A few seats along from Cho, Luna Lovegood has got out The Quibbler again. Luka is rolling his eyes at almost everything that comes out of the toad’s mouth. Meanwhile at the Hufflepuff table, Ernie Macmillan is one of the few still staring at Professor Umbridge, but he is glassy-eyed and I am sure he is only pretending to listen in an attempt to live up to the new prefect’s badge gleaming on his chest. Ariana is twiddling her thumbs absently.

Professor Umbridge does not seem to notice the restlessness of her audience. I have the impression that a full-scale riot could break out under her nose and she would plow on with her speech. The teachers, however, are still listening very attentively, and Hermione seems to be drinking in every word Umbridge speaks, though judging by her expression, they are not at all to her taste.

With Umbridge nothing of import usually comes out of her mouth.

“. . . because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

Oh joy she shut up finally. I can’t honestly say that I listened to the entirety of her speech. My brain shut down somewhere after realizing that she’s going to be one of my educators.

She sits down. Dumbledore claps. The staff follows his lead, though I notice that several of them bring their hands together only once or twice before stopping. A few students join in, but most have been taken unawares by the end of the speech, not having listened to more than a few words of it, and before they can start applauding properly, Dumbledore has stood up again.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he says, bowing to her. “Now — as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held . . .”

Oh thank Merlin something much better to think about Quidditch.

“Yes, it certainly was illuminating,” says Hermione in a low voice. I guess I’m not going to get a break tonight. I heave a sigh and focus my attention on my best friend.

“You’re not telling me you enjoyed it?” Ron says quietly, turning a glazed face upon Hermione. “That was about the dullest speech I’ve ever heard, and I grew up with Percy.”

“I said illuminating, not enjoyable,” says Hermione. “It explained a lot.”

“Did it?” says Harry in surprise. “Sounded like a load of waffle to me.”

“They could have picked anyone but her.” I whine.

“There was some important stuff hidden in the waffle,” says Hermione grimly.

“Was there?” says Ron blankly. I look up from my pout to catch Hermione’s serious face again.

“How about ‘progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged’? How about ‘pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited’?”

“Well, what does that mean?” says Ron impatiently.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” says Hermione ominously. “It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts.” That cannot be good in any way shape or form. I have the distinctly bad feeling that this year has gotten a lot worse.

There is a great clattering and banging all around us; Dumbledore has obviously just dismissed the school, because everyone is standing up ready to leave the Hall. Hermione jumps up, looking flustered.

“Ron, we’re supposed to show the first years where to go!”

“Oh yeah,” says Ron, who has obviously forgotten. “Hey — hey you lot! Midgets!”

“Ron!”

“Well, they are, they’re titchy . . .”

“I know, but you can’t call them midgets. . . . First years!” Hermione calls commandingly along the table. “This way, please!” Oh yeah Ron as prefect is going to be one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. I have a feeling that I’m going to need a good laugh sooner rather than later.

A group of new students walk shyly up the gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, all of them trying hard not to lead the group. They do indeed seem very small. I notice some of the small boys give Harry petrified looks, and I notice the smile slip off my friend’s face.

“Its their parents Harry, they’re not smart enough to know anything on their own yet.” I reason with him.

“See you later,” he says to Ron and Hermione and he makes his way out of the Great Hall alone. I give them rueful smiles and hurry to catch up with Harry. I catch him as he weaves his way through the crowd in the entrance hall, then we hurry up the marble staircase, take a couple of concealed shortcuts, and have soon left most of the crowds behind.

We don’t talk for I have a feeling that my friend is not in the mood, and truthfully neither am I all that much.

We reach the end of the corridor to the Gryffindor common room and come to a halt in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady before realizing that we do not know the new password.

“Er . . .” Harry says glumly, staring up at the Fat Lady, who smooths the folds of her pink satin dress and looks sternly back at us.

“No password, no entrance,” she says loftily.

“Harry, Jamie, I know it!” someone pants from behind us, and we turn to see Neville jogging towards us. “Guess what it is? I’m actually going to be able to remember it for once —” He waves the stunted little cactus he showed us on the train. “Mimbulus mimbletonia!”

“Correct,” says the Fat Lady, and her portrait swings open towards us like a door, revealing a circular hole in the wall behind, through which Harry and Neville now climb. I go behind Harry for I want to be as far away from that plant as possible. Sure I can clean myself up just fine, but I rather not get hit with the stinksap twice in one day.

The Gryffindor common room looks as welcoming as ever, a cozy circular tower room full of dilapidated squashy armchairs and rickety old tables. A fire is crackling merrily in the grate and a few people are warming their hands before going up to their dormitories; on the other side of the room Fred and George are pinning something up on the notice board.

Harry heaves a weary sigh and turns to me. “I’m tired Jamie. I’ll see you in the morning.” He tells me, and before I have a chance to reply he’s waving to the twins and up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. Its now my turn to sigh, I might as well turn in for the night too. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a very long day; I’ll need all of my strength for it. Besides I didn’t sleep well last night.

I head over for the twins, and tap them on the shoulders. “Night boys, I’ll see you tomorrow. I have a feeling that we’re going to be busy this year. The new professor… she needs some more— colorful ways to make her day brighter.” I say suggestively. Fred’s eyebrow arcs, and George grins at me widely.

“Why Jamie are you insinuating what I think you’re insinuating?” George gasps.

“If you are please do continue.” Fred grins. I smile back at the boys who if I’m honest are definitely my brothers at this point.

“Let’s just say that I’ve met the dear professor before and she’s not the best of people. You’ll have proof very soon if you need it. If not… well then we can get to doing what we do best.” I tell them. It doesn’t even take the pair a second to respond to me.

“Done.” Fred states.

“Only had to ask.” George replies. I grin gratefully at the boys, and give them a quick hug.

“Night then. Try not to have too much fun.” I call over my shoulder. I listen to their chorused good nights and climb the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. I make it to the room labeled fifth years, and climb inside to find my trunk by a bed near the window again. I smile happily noticing Hermione’s trunk in front of the bed next to mine.

Tiredly I change into a nice soft pair of dragon pajamas and climb into bed pulling all but one of the curtains closed. I lay there for a few minutes contemplating all that went on tonight, before the room bursts into noise. I hear the two annoyingly familiar voices of Lavender and Parvati cross to the other side of the room, then Hermione annoyed remark.

That’s when I decide to pull the last curtain closed. When I hear Hermione by her bed I call out a good night, which she returns. With a yawn I climb under my red bed sheets and burrow into my pillow. Please Merlin, let tomorrow be better than I fear it will be.


	9. Professor Umbridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 9- Professor Umbridge

 

The next morning comes early and hits hard. The thought of actually having to attend class seems an insurmountable task. That’s probably because my night was plagued with nightmares again— brief flashes of pictures and people before the eerie green light. The most frightening thing is the feeling of calm and relaxation after the light has faded and all the people are gone.

That’s when his face showed up. The long shaggy sandy blond hair with cold blue eyes that seemed to tear right through me and the dry raspy laugh that belonged to the man. _Its time… I can feel him summoning me. It’s time— finally time!_ I woke up in an uncomfortable cold sweat. Luckily I hadn’t managed to wake anyone else up. After warm shower to bring the heat back into my body I change into my uniform in time for Hermione to poke her head into the bathroom questioning if I’m ready to head to breakfast.

“Sure thing!” I say faking a grin on my face. Luckily for me Hermione is distracted with fixing the prefect’s badge on her chest. “You okay there Mione?” I ask her. She sighs and turns her attention to me.

“Its rather nerve racking being in charge of so many people.” She admits softly glancing around the stairwell as if there are girls there listening in.

“I would guess so, but there’s no other girl for the job but you. Imagine if I was the one in charge of doling out punishments.” I say with a wry grin. She pales at the mere though of my too light or too excessive punishments.

“It would be a nightmare.” She breathes. I snort and shoot her a wounded look.

“Wow, that hurts Mione, right here.” I moan stumbling down the last few stairs. She rolls her eyes at me and we come to a stop practically running into Harry and Ron in the middle of the common room.

Judging by the look on Harry’s face something happened. “What’s the matter?” Hermione asks them the smile on her face slowly slipping off. “You look absolutely — oh for heaven’s sake.”

She is staring at the common room notice board, where a large new sign has been put up.

GALLONS OF GALLEONS!

Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?

Like to earn a little extra gold?

 

Contact Fred and George Weasley, Gryffindor common room, for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs

(WE REGRET THAT ALL WORK IS UNDERTAKEN AT APPLICANT’S OWN RISK)

 

“They are the limit,” says Hermione grimly, taking down the sign, which Fred and George have pinned up over a poster giving the date of the first Hogsmeade weekend in October. “We’ll have to talk to them, Ron.”

Ron looks positively alarmed. “Why?”

“Because we’re prefects!” says Hermione, as we climb out through the portrait hole. “It’s up to us to stop this kind of thing!”

Ron says nothing; I can tell from his glum expression that the prospect of stopping Fred and George doing exactly what they like is not one that he finds inviting.

“Yeah good luck with that you two.” I say clapping Ron on the shoulder before sharing a smirk with Harry.

“See loving the life of luxury! No responsibility for me.” I state with a grin. The look that Hermione shoots me is so scary that it’s almost level with Molly. “Besides my school work that is.” I say hoping to appease the girl.

“Anyway, what’s up, Harry?” Hermione continues, as we walk down a flight of stairs lined with portraits of old witches and wizards, all of whom ignore us, being engrossed in their own conversation. “You look really angry about something.”

“Seamus reckons Harry’s lying about You-Know-Who,” says Ron succinctly, when Harry does not respond.

“I was afraid this would happen.” I sigh. Hermione sighs.

“Yes, Lavender thinks so too,” she says gloomily.

“Been having a nice little chat with her about whether or not I’m a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?” Harry says loudly. I turn and give him a sharp look over my shoulder, but I can’t hold it long for I need to look in order to not trip down a step or two.

“No,” says Hermione calmly, “I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut about you, actually. And it would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down Ron’s, Jamie’s, and my throats, Harry, because if you haven’t noticed, we’re on your side.”

There is a short pause. “Sorry,” says Harry in a low voice.

“That’s quite all right,” says Hermione with dignity. Then she shakes her head.  “Don’t you remember what Dumbledore said at the end-of-term feast last year?”

Harry and Ron both look at her blankly, and Hermione sighs again. “About You-Know-Who. He said, ‘His gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust —’”

“How do you remember stuff like that?” asks Ron, looking at her in admiration.

“I listen, Ron,” says Hermione with a touch of asperity.

“So do I, but I still couldn’t tell you exactly what —”

“The point,” Hermione presses on loudly, “is that this sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. You-Know-Who’s only been back two months, and we’ve started fighting among ourselves. And the Sorting Hat’s warning was the same — stand together, be united —”

“And Harry said it last night,” retorts Ron, “if that means we’re supposed to get matey with the Slytherins, fat chance.”

“Well, I think it’s a pity we’re not trying for a bit of inter-House unity,” says Hermione crossly.

“Says the girl who punched Malfoy third year.” I say casually taking pride in the blush that rises to her cheeks.

“That’s different Jamie and you know it. Besides, it was a long time ago, and we should all learn to let the past go…”

“I would not like to let the past go Hermione. You wouldn’t understand you’ve never had something bad happen to you before, but there are some things that you just can’t let go so easily.” I say darkly thinking back to my dream last night. You can’t let them go even if you really want to.

We reach the foot of the marble staircase. A line of fourth-year Ravenclaws are crossing the entrance hall; they catch sight of Harry and hurry to form a tighter group, as though frightened he might attack stragglers.

“Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like that,” says Harry sarcastically.

“Oi! You call yourselves smart? That’s Harry Potter you tossers and he’s one of the best blokes that I know, worth ten of you, so you’d best do something with those brains you got in your heads and learn not to trust everything that’s in the prophet!” A loud voice rings out. The fourth years jump startled and I turn around to see my brother standing there glowering.

“Get on then!” He growls. The fourth years scamper into the hall, and Luka turns to us. “Sorry about that Harry. Some people need to learn better manners in this here place. I’ll try to keep them in line for you.” Luka says giving Harry a rueful look.

Harry looks bewilderedly at me brother. I don’t think that he ever expected Luka to do something like that for him. “T-thanks Luka.” Harry says practically speechless.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you lot around. Jamie.” Luka bids us farewell and enters the Great Hall. I beam a smile after him. I have to admit sometimes I really love my brother.

“See Harry you do have people on your side.” Hermione states happily.

“I don’t think Jamie’s brother counts.” Harry mumbles.

“Mate I’ve lived with him. Luka isn’t easy to sway in opinions you’ve got his support.” Ron says actually backing up Luka which is a first. I think I’ve only ever heard them argue before, but then again there never was any actual brawling.

We follow Luka into the Great Hall, looking instinctively at the staff table as we enter. Professor Grubbly-Plank is chatting to Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, and Hagrid is once again conspicuous only by his absence. The enchanted ceiling above us echoed Harry’s mood; it is a miserable rain-cloud gray.

“Dumbledore didn’t even mention how long that Grubbly-Plank woman’s staying,” he says, as we make our way across to the Gryffindor table.

“Maybe . . .” says Hermione thoughtfully.

“What?” says both Harry and Ron together.

“Well . . . maybe he didn’t want to draw attention to Hagrid not being here.”

“What d’you mean, draw attention to it?” says Ron, half laughing. “How could we not notice?”

Before Hermione can answer, a tall black girl with long, braided hair marches up to Harry and me.

“Hi, Angelina.” I say with a smile.

“Hi,” she says briskly, “good summer?” And without waiting for an answer, “Listen, I’ve been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.”

“Congrats.” I cheer.

“Nice one,” says Harry, grinning at her.

   I suspect Angelina’s pep talks might not be as long-winded as Oliver Wood’s were, which can only be an improvement. It seems like Harry seems to agree with me on that by the look of hopeful relief on his face.

“Yeah, well, we need a new Keeper now Oliver’s left. Tryouts are on Friday at five o’clock and I want the whole team there, all right? Then we can see how the new person’ll fit in.”

“Okay,” Harry and I say, and she smiles at us and departs.

“I’d forgotten Wood had left,” says Hermione vaguely, sitting down beside Ron and pulling a plate of toast towards her. “I suppose that will make quite a difference to the team?”

“I s’pose,” says Harry, taking the bench opposite. “He was a good Keeper . . .”

“Still, it won’t hurt to have some new blood, will it?” says Ron.

“Guess not the team has been very constant since Harry and I made it.” I muse munching on some jam toast.

With a whoosh and a clatter, hundreds of owls come soaring in through the upper windows. They descend all over the Hall, bringing letters and packages to their owners and showering the breakfasters with droplets of water; it is clearly raining hard outside. Dionysus drops off a letter at the Ravenclaw table for Luka then flutters down to a stop next to my plate dropping my letter in my hand. I recognize the handwriting instantly— it’s from Molly. I can’t help but smile as I pocket the letter for later. I feed him a sausage link and with a hoot Di flies away.

Hermione, however, has to move her orange juice aside quickly to make way for a large damp barn owl bearing a sodden Daily Prophet in its beak.

“What are you still getting that for?” says Harry irritably, as Hermione places a Knut in the leather pouch on the owl’s leg and it takes off again. “I’m not bothering . . . load of rubbish.”

“It’s best to know what the enemy are saying,” says Hermione darkly, and she unfurls the newspaper and disappears behind it, not emerging until Harry, Ron, and I have finished eating.

“Nothing,” she says simply, rolling up the newspaper and laying it down by her plate. “Nothing about you or Dumbledore or anything.”

“Well that’s good at least. Something is going right today.” I say trying to keep a somewhat positive attitude. Professor McGonagall is now moving along the table handing out schedules.

“Look at today!” groans Ron. “History of Magic, double Potions, Divination, and double Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . Binns, Snape, Trelawney, and that Umbridge woman all in one day! I wish Fred and George’d hurry up and get those Skiving Snackboxes sorted . . .”

I grimace looking down at mine; I agree with Ron I’m going to need to get out of this day.

“Do mine ears deceive me?” says Fred, arriving with George and squeezing onto the bench beside Harry. “Hogwarts prefects surely don’t wish to skive off lessons?”

“Look what we’ve got today,” says Ron grumpily, shoving his schedule under Fred’s nose. “That’s the worst Monday I’ve ever seen.”

“Fair point, little bro,” says Fred, scanning the column. “You can have a bit of Nosebleed Nougat cheap if you like.”

“Why’s it cheap?” says Ron suspiciously.

“Because you’ll keep bleeding till you shrivel up, they haven’t got an antidote yet,” I say with a grim look as Fred helps himself to a kipper.

“Cheers,” says Ron moodily, pocketing his schedule, “but I think I’ll take the lessons.”

“First time for everything then.” I mutter with a smile, and Ron sticks his tongue out at me. I return it right back.

“I swear you two are children sometimes.” Hermione says with a sigh.

“I’m fifteen Hermione! I still am a child!” I cry. She rolls her eyes but chooses not to comment.

“And speaking of your Skiving Snackboxes,” says Hermione, eyeing Fred and George beadily, “you can’t advertise for testers on the Gryffindor notice board.”

“Says who?” says George, looking astonished.

“Says me,” says Hermione. “And Ron.”

“Leave me out of it,” says Ron hastily. Hermione glares at him. Fred and George snigger.

“You’ll be singing a different tune soon enough, Hermione,” says Fred, thickly buttering a crumpet. “You’re starting your fifth year, you’ll be begging us for a Snackbox before long.”

“And why would starting fifth year mean I want a Skiving Snackbox?” asks Hermione.

“Fifth year’s O.W.L. year,” says George.

“So?”

“So you’ve got your exams coming up, haven’t you? They’ll be keeping your noses so hard to that grindstone they’ll be rubbed raw,” says Fred with satisfaction. Oh great just what I need more exams in subjects I can stand.

“Half our year had minor breakdowns coming up to O.W.L.s,” says George happily. “Tears and tantrums . . . Patricia Stimpson kept coming over faint . . .”

“Kenneth Towler came out in boils, d’you remember?” says Fred reminiscently.

“That’s ’cause you put Bulbadox Powder in his pajamas,” says George.

“Oh yeah,” says Fred, grinning. “I’d forgotten. . . . Hard to keep track sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Anyway, it’s a nightmare of a year, the fifth,” says George. “If you care about exam results anyway. Fred and I managed to keep our spirits up somehow.”

“Yeah . . . you got, what was it, three O.W.L.s each?” says Ron.

“Yep,” says Fred unconcernedly. “But we feel our futures lie outside the world of academic achievement.”

“We seriously debated whether we were going to bother coming back for our seventh year,” says George brightly, “now that we’ve got —”

They stop at the severe look that Harry shoots them, and I groan silently. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to admit that he helped them with money to start out their business.

“— now that we’ve got our O.W.L.s,” George says hastily. “I mean, do we really need N.E.W.T.s? But we didn’t think Mum could take us leaving school early, not on top of Percy turning out to be the world’s biggest prat.”

“We’re not going to waste our last year here, though,” says Fred, looking affectionately around at the Great Hall. “We’re going to use it to do a bit of market research, find out exactly what the average Hogwarts student requires from his joke shop, carefully evaluate the results of our research, and then produce the products to fit the demand.”

“But where are you going to get the gold to start a joke shop?” asks Hermione skeptically. “You’re going to need all the ingredients and materials — and premises too, I suppose . . .”

“Ask us no questions and we’ll tell you no lies, Hermione. C’mon, George, if we get there early we might be able to sell a few Extendable Ears before Herbology.” says Fred.

The two of them grab a stack of toast each shooting me a meaningful look meaning they remember the conversation we had last night, and head off.

“What did that mean?” says Hermione, looking from Harry to Ron. “‘Ask us no questions . . . ’ Does that mean they’ve already got some gold to start a joke shop?”

“You know, I’ve been wondering about that,” says Ron, his brow furrowed. “They bought me a new set of dress robes this summer, and I couldn’t understand where they got the Galleons . . .”

“D’you reckon it’s true this year’s going to be really tough? Because of the exams?” Harry asks suddenly and I know that he’s trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous grounds.

“Oh yeah,” says Ron. “Bound to be, isn’t it? O.W.L.s are really important, affect the jobs you can apply for and everything. We get career advice too, later this year, Bill told me. So you can choose what N.E.W.T.s you want to do next year.”

“D’you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?” Harry asks the rest of us, as we leave the Great Hall shortly afterwards and set off toward our History of Magic classroom.

“Not really,” says Ron slowly. “Except . . . well . . .” He looks slightly sheepish.

“What?” Harry urges him.

“Well, it’d be cool to be an Auror,” says Ron in an offhand voice.

“Yeah, it would,” says Harry fervently.

“But they’re, like, the elite,” said Ron. “You’ve got to be really good. What about you, Jamie?”

“I dunno… I guess being an Auror would be fun but… I don’t really think I want to do that.” I trail off avoiding eye contact with the others. I don’t know what my goals are per say, but I do know that they’re not as lofty as the others. “Mione what about you.” I question passing the spotlight onto my best friend.

“I don’t know,” says Hermione. “I think I’d really like to do something worthwhile.”

“An Auror’s worthwhile!” says Harry.

“Yes, it is, but it’s not the only worthwhile thing,” says Hermione thoughtfully. “I mean, if I could take S.P.E.W. further . . .”

The rest of us quickly focus straight ahead on our classroom so as not to engage her SPEW line of questioning.

History of Magic is by common consent the most boring subject ever devised by Wizard-kind. Professor Binns, our ghost teacher, has a wheezy, droning voice that is almost guaranteed to cause severe drowsiness within ten minutes, five in warm weather. He never varies the form of our lessons, but lectures us without pausing while we take notes, or rather, gazed sleepily into space. Harry and Ron have so far managed to scrape passes in this subject only by copying Hermione’s notes before exams; she alone seems able to resist the soporific power of Binns’s voice. I do all right with my partial notes and begging Ariana and Luka for help. No I am not above begging them, which they find kind of funny actually.

Today we suffer three-quarters of an hour’s droning on the subject of giant wars. I hear just enough within the first ten minutes to appreciate dimly that in another teacher’s hands this subject might be mildly interesting, but then my brain disengages, and spend the next thirty five minutes drawing hedgehogs that I can later enchant, while Hermione shoots me filthy looks out of the corner of her eye. The boys are playing hangman and are not faring much better with her wrath.

“How would it be,” she asks us coldly as we leave the classroom for break (Binns drifting away through the blackboard), “if I refused to lend you my notes this year?”

“I’ve got two prefects perfectly willing to help me out of familial obligation and friendship.” I fire off quickly still trying to blink the bleariness out of my eyes.

“We’d fail our O.W.L.s,” says Ron. “If you want that on your conscience, Hermione . . .”

“Well, you’d deserve it,” she snaps. “You don’t even try to listen to him, do you?”

“We do try,” says Ron. “We just haven’t got your brains or your memory or your concentration — you’re just cleverer than we are — is it nice to rub it in?”

“Oh, don’t give me that rubbish,” says Hermione, but she looks slightly mollified as she leads the way out into the damp courtyard.

A fine misty drizzle is falling, so that the people standing in huddles around the yard look blurred at the edges. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I choose a secluded corner under a heavily dripping balcony, turning up the collars of our robes against the chilly September air and talking about what Snape is likely to set us in the first lesson of the year. We have got as far as agreeing that it is likely to be something extremely difficult, just to catch us off guard after a two-month holiday, when someone walks around the corner towards us. I heave a sigh seeing who it is.

“Hello, Harry!”

It is Cho Chang and what is more, she is on her own again. This is most unusual: Cho is almost always surrounded by a gang of giggling girls.

“Hi,” says Harry, his face growing hot.

“You got that stuff off, then?” Cho says referring to the stinksap yesterday.

“It was a close call Cho but he made it.” I say with a big grin, and Harry shoots me a death glare for interfering.

“Yeah,” says Harry, trying to. “So did you . . . er . . . have a good summer?” I almost face palm at the stupidity of his question.

“Something seemed to tighten in her face, but she says, “Oh, it was all right, you know . . .” Cedric died, we know.

“Is that a Tornados badge?” Ron demands suddenly, pointing at the front of Cho’s robes, to which a sky-blue badge emblazoned with a double gold T is pinned. “You don’t support them, do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” says Cho.

“Have you always supported them, or just since they started winning the league?” says Ron, in what I consider an unnecessarily accusatory tone of voice.

“I’ve supported them since I was six,” says Cho coolly. “Anyway . . . see you, Harry.”

She walks away. Hermione waits until Cho is halfway across the courtyard before rounding on Ron.

“You are so tactless!”

“What? I only asked her if —”

“Couldn’t you tell she wanted to talk to Harry on her own?”

“So? She could’ve done, I wasn’t stopping —”

“What on earth were you attacking her about her Quidditch team for?”

“Attacking? I wasn’t attacking her, I was only —”

“Who cares if she supports the Tornados?”

“Oh, come on, half the people you see wearing those badges only bought them last season —”

“But what does it matter?”

Well I haven’t heard this in a while, and I can’t say that I missed it. I swear that sometimes I hear them bickering in my dreams.

“It means they’re not real fans, they’re just jumping on the bandwagon —”

“That’s the bell,” says Harry listlessly, because Ron and Hermione are bickering too loudly to hear it. They do not stop arguing all the way down to Snape’s dungeon, which gives me plenty of time to see the morose look on Harry’s face at having his second shot at actually having a conversation with Cho ruined. This day is so not going my way.

After a few minutes the ominous sound of Snape’s dungeon door greets us. I hope that I can manage to last the entire double session of potions without having to leave the classroom because of my— temper, magic? What is the right term to us there?

I file into the classroom behind Ron, Hermione, and Harry and followed them to our usual table at the back, ignoring the huffy, irritable noises now issuing from the disgruntled pair.

“Settle down,” says Snape coldly, shutting the door behind him. There is no real need for the call to order; the moment the class heard the door close, quiet falls and all fidgeting stops. Snape’s mere presence is usually enough to ensure a class’s silence.

“Before we begin today’s lesson,” says Snape, sweeping over to his desk and staring around at us all, “I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an ‘Acceptable’ in your O.W.L., or suffer my . . . displeasure.”

His gaze lingers this time upon Neville, who gulps. He is really trying to test me already and we haven’t even started making potions.

“After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me,” Snape goes on. “I take only the very best into my N.E.W.T. Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying good-bye.”

Thank Merlin I would absolutely hate another two years with him. Even if by some miracle I manage to get a score that high I will not be taking Potions with him. I have enough drama and danger in my life already.

“But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell,” says Snape softly, “so whether you are intending to attempt N.E.W.T. or not, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high-pass level I have come to expect from my O.W.L. students.”

“Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: If you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing.” On my left, Hermione sits up a little straighter, her expression one of the utmost attentiveness.

“The ingredients and method” — Snape flicks his wand — “are on the blackboard” — (they appear there) — “you will find everything you need” — he flicks his wand again — “in the store cupboard” — (the door of the cupboard springs open) — “you have an hour and a half. . . . Start.”

Just as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I predicted, Snape could hardly have set us a more difficult, fiddly potion. The ingredients have to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; the mixture has to be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in counterclockwise directions; the heat of the flames on which it is simmering has to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes before the final ingredient is added.

So basically a lot of long, tedious, nerve racking steps in between bouts of severe boredom. Ah it’s good to be back in potions class. I’m not particularly bad in this subject on the contrary I do quite well, just never enough to make me stand out like Hermione which is fine with me.

“A light silver vapor should now be rising from your potion,” calls Snape, with ten minutes left to go.

Harry, who is sweating profusely, looks desperately around the dungeon. His cauldron is issuing copious amounts of dark gray steam; Ron’s is spitting green sparks. Seamus is feverishly prodding the flames at the base of his cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they have gone out. The surface of Hermione’s potion, however, is a shimmering mist of silver vapor, and as Snape sweeps by he looks down his hooked nose at it without comment, which means that he can find nothing to criticize. At Harry’s cauldron, however, Snape stops, looking down at Harry with a horrible smirk on his face.

Ah here we go, time to put some of those breathing techniques into use.

“Potter, what is this supposed to be?” The Slytherins at the front of the class all look up eagerly; they love hearing Snape taunt Harry.

Breathe in.

“The Draught of Peace,” says Harry tensely.

“Tell me, Potter,” says Snape softly, “can you read?”

Breathe out.

Draco Malfoy laughs. “Yes, I can,” says Harry, his fingers clenched tightly around his wand.

“Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter.”

Breathe in.

Harry squints to see through the smoke at the blackboard.

“‘Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes, then add two drops of syrup of hellebore.’”

“Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?”

Breathe out.

“No,” says Harry very quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No,” says Harry, more loudly. “I forgot the hellebore . . .”

Breathe in.

“I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. Evanesco.” The contents of Harry’s potion vanish; he is left standing foolishly beside an empty cauldron.

Breathe out. I can feel the magic tingling in my fingertips where I’m clutching my stool for dear life. Please let Snape not come over to me and open his mouth. Merlin if you’re out there please give a girl a hand.

Snape merely glances at my potion, which is emitting the barest amount of silver smoke off the top of it. His grimace tightens and I know that I passed.

“Those of you who have managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing,” says Snape. “Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday.”

Ouch that sucks. As everyone carefully ladles a sample of their potion for Snape Harry quickly cleans up his stuff. By the time I’m back from dropping my sample off he’s gone to lunch. Hermione, Ron, and I make our way to lunch murmuring about how many blows Harry’s going to be able to stand to take to his ego.

Once we get to the hall we plunk down around him. The ceiling has turned an even murkier gray during the morning. Rain is lashing the high windows.

“That was really unfair,” says Hermione consolingly, sitting down next to Harry and helping herself to shepherd’s pie. “Your potion wasn’t nearly as bad as Goyle’s, when he put it in his flagon the whole thing shattered and set his robes on fire.”

“It was a beautiful sight.” I say somewhat wistfully.

“Yeah, well,” says Harry, glowering at his plate, “since when has Snape ever been fair to me?”

The rest of us don’t have an answer; all four of us know that Snape and Harry’s mutual enmity has been absolute from the moment Harry has set foot in Hogwarts. Its unfair but there’s nothing we can do about it.

“I did think he might be a bit better this year,” says Hermione in a disappointed voice. “I mean . . . you know . . .” She looks carefully around; there are half a dozen empty seats on either side of us and nobody is passing the table. “. . . Now he’s in the Order and everything.”

“Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots,” says Ron sagely. “Anyway, I’ve always thought Dumbledore was cracked trusting Snape, where’s the evidence he ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?”

“I think Dumbledore’s probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn’t share it with you, Ron,” snaps Hermione. I groan down into my pie, can’t they stop bickering for even a few minutes.

“Oh, shut up, the pair of you,” says Harry heavily, as Ron opens his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both freeze, looking angry and offended. I can’t believe he’s acting this way truthfully. “Can’t you give it a rest?” he says. “You’re always having a go at each other, it’s driving me mad.” And abandoning his shepherd’s pie, he swings his schoolbag back over his shoulder and leaves us sitting there.

I blink a few times not really sure if what just happened really happened. Hermione and Ron gape for another moment before narrowing their eyes at one another.

“Look what you’ve done!”

“Oh you really blew it now!”

With a grimace I slip to my feet, shoulder my bag, and grab my pie hurrying over to the next table next to the familiar blonde. Her friends notice me first like always and their eyes widen comically. I plop down onto the bench next to her and continue eating my shepherd’s pie. Finally the girl turns to me with an amused look in her sparkling brown eyes.

“Can I help you Pendragon, it seems you lost your way to the Gryffindor table.” Ariana says. I roll my eyes knowing full well that my table is directly behind me.

“I’m seeking asylum Dumbledore. The drama going on over there is enough to make me want to pull my hair out.” I state with a pout. Ariana chuckles and casts a look over her shoulder at the Gryffindors. No one seems to really notice that I’m out of place besides the prefect’s friends.

“Well we can’t have that sort of damage happen to your hair. Its far too beautiful for that.” She smirks. I narrow my eyes at her, but instead of commenting I merely take another bite. “So who is it Weasley, Granger, or Potter?”

“Try all three in varying degrees of annoyance and irritability. I’m going mad here Ari they’re— they’re just so frustrating!” I cry. Now the Hufflepuffs are looks amusedly at me. Ariana chuckles along with them. “Come on— I don’t have your awesome Hufflepuff powers of tolerance, and friendship— voodoo!” I say finally finding a word I think will get my point across but it causes them only to laugh harder.

Ariana actually wipes a stray tear out of her eye. That only causes me to feel more dejected. I start to get up but she latches a hand onto my arm, tugging me back down. “Come on Jamie you know we don’t mean it. You’re just— cute when you try to articulate concepts you’re not the best at. I’ll help you with it.” Ariana says seriously but the smiles still on her face.

Slowly I lower myself down next to her again, and she smiles at me. “Look Hermione and Ron both have strong personalities that conflict with each other a lot. That’s why they fight so much…”

“I already knew that.” I say quickly unimpressed.

“If you’ll shut up Pendragon and let me finish I’ll tell you stuff you don’t know. The reason why they continue to be friends is not just you and Harry, but because they actually like each other, maybe even a little more than just friendship.” Ariana says smirking now. I make a face. I knew that could be a possibility but I was hoping that it was all in my head.

“Ugh why… he’s just so gross and disgusting half the time. Not to mention immature.” I gripe.

“That’s because he’s your brother Jamie. You know his good qualities as well.” I startle at the use of brother when referring to Ron. The other girls look confused but Ariana keeps up with the knowing look. I guess that the Weasley kids really have become like siblings to me. The realization warms me knowing that its no longer just Luka and me anymore.

The warning bell rings and I groan. “You want to go to class for me Dumbledore?” I question hopefully. Ariana snorts standing up.

“I just gave you lots of free helpful advice Pendragon. Besides, you need to keep using that head of yours if you want to keep up with me.” She challenges. I sigh shaking my head at that.

“In this case Dumbledore you’re out of my league.” I say walking out of the Great Hall and on to class. I slowly make my way to Divination truly hating this class with a fiery passion.

I run into Ron on the way up there and we make the rest of the trip up the tower and into class. We join Harry at our usual table by the window.

“Hermione and me have stopped arguing,” Ron says, sitting down beside Harry. I take his other side.

“Good,” grunts Harry.

“But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us,” says Ron.

“I’m not —”

“I’m just passing on the message,” says Ron, talking over him. “But I reckon she’s right. It’s not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you.”

“I never said it —”

“Good day,” says Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry breaks off. “And welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been following your fortunes most carefully over the holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all returned to Hogwarts safely — as, of course, I knew you would.”

“You will find on the tables before you copies of The Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is a most important means of divining the future and one that may very probably be tested in your O.W.L. Not, of course, that I believe examination passes or failures are of the remotest importance when it comes to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. However, the headmaster likes you to sit the examination, so . . .”

Her voice trails away delicately, leaving us all in no doubt that Professor Trelawney considers her subject above such sordid matters as examinations. At least this exam won’t be that bad as long as I make some good stuff up.

“Turn, please, to the introduction and read what Imago has to say on the matter of dream interpretation. Then divide into pairs. Use The Dream Oracle to interpret each other’s most recent dreams. Carry on.” Oh great dream jus the subject I don’t want to touch on.

The one good thing to be said for this lesson is that it is not a double period. By the time we have all finished reading the introduction of the book, we have barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. At the table next to Harry and Ron, Dean pairs up with Neville, who immediately embarks on a long-winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother’s best hat; Harry, Ron, and I merely look at each other glumly.

“I never remember my dreams,” says Ron. “You say one.”

“How about you Jamie.” Harry says redirecting the question to me. I freeze for a moment, the dream of last night still fresh in my mind.

I open my mouth to respond but my mouth has gone dry. I clear my throat and glance down at the table darkly. “My uncle…” I manage to get out. Harry and Ron suck in sharp breaths. I glance up to see their uncomfortable faces. Usually Hermione would be the one to confront statements such like that. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I say tersely.

The boys nod their heads in quick agreement. “Ron?” Harry says back at the red haired boy.

“Well, I had one that I was playing Quidditch the other night,” says Ron, screwing up his face in an effort to remember. “What d’you reckon that means?”

“Probably that you’re going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something,” says Harry, turning the pages of The Dream Oracle without interest.

It is very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the Oracle and I am not cheered up when Professor Trelawney sets us the task of keeping a dream diary for a month as homework. When the bell goes, Harry, Ron, and I lead the way back down the ladder, Ron grumbling loudly.

“D’you realize how much homework we’ve got already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of moonstones, and now we’ve got a month’s dream diary from Trelawney! Fred and George weren’t wrong about O.W.L. year, were they? That Umbridge woman had better not give us any . . .”

Its now time for the class that I have been dreading the most since coming back to school and finding out who our new professor is going to be.

When we enter the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom we find Professor Umbridge already seated at the teacher’s desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her head. I am again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.

The class is quiet as we enter the room; Professor Umbridge is, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knows yet how strict a disciplinarian she is likely to be.

“Well, good afternoon!” she says when finally the whole class has sat down.

A few people mumble “Good afternoon,” in reply. I’m not one of them.

“Tut, tut,” says Professor Umbridge. “That won’t do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” we chant back at her. This is getting far worse than I feared to begin with. I loathe that woman.

“There, now,” says Professor Umbridge sweetly. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.”

Many of the class exchanges gloomy looks; the order “wands away” has never yet been followed by a lesson we have found interesting. I shove my wand back inside my bag and pull out quill, ink, and parchment. Professor Umbridge opens her handbag, extracts her own wand, which is an unusually short one, and taps the blackboard sharply with it; words appear on the board at once:

Defense Against the Dark Arts

A Return to Basic Principles

 

Oh this can’t be a good sign. Hermione shifts uneasily in her seat next to me.

“Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” states Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.”

“You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.”

She raps the blackboard again; the first message vanishes and is replaced by:

 

Course aims:

  1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
  2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.
  3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.



 

For a couple of minutes the room is full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone has copied down Professor Umbridge’s three course aims she says, “Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

There is a dull murmur of assent throughout the class. Ah yes, I have a feeling that textbook is going to be dead weight this year.

“I think we’ll try that again,” says Professor Umbridge. “When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply ‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,’ or ‘No, Professor Umbridge.’ So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” rings through the room. My hands bunch into fists. We’re being treated like we’re toddlers here. I slowly try to get my breathing under control. I have a feeling that Umbridge is going to make Snape look like a cuddly teddy bear.

“Good,” says Professor Umbridge. “I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for Beginners.’ There will be no need to talk.”

Professor Umbridge leaves the blackboard and settles herself in the chair behind the teacher’s desk, observing us all with those pouchy toad’s eyes. I turn to page five of my copy of Defensive Magical Theory and start to read.

It is desperately dull, quite as bad as listening to Professor Binns. I decide to just stop reading as it is clearly not worth reading. Several silent minutes pass.

Next to me, Ron is absentmindedly turning his quill over and over in his fingers, staring at the same spot on the page. I look right and receive a surprise to shake me out of my torpor. Hermione has not even opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory. She is staring fixedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand in the air.

I can not remember Hermione ever neglecting to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the temptation to open any book that comes under her nose. I look at her questioningly, but she merely shakes her head slightly to indicate that she is not about to answer questions, and continues to stare at Professor Umbridge, who is looking just as resolutely in another direction.

After several more minutes have passed, however, I am not the only one watching Hermione. The chapter we were instructed to read is so tedious that more and more people are choosing to watch Hermione’s mute attempt to catch Professor Umbridge’s eye than to struggle on with “Basics for Beginners.”

When more than half the class is staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seems to decide that she can ignore the situation no longer.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?” she asks Hermione, as though she has only just noticed her.

“Not about the chapter, no,” says Hermione.

“Well, we’re reading just now,” says Professor Umbridge, showing her small, pointed teeth. “If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” says Hermione. Professor Umbridge raises her eyebrows. Oh this is going to be interesting. Hermione is very serious when it comes to her schoolwork and this isn’t even work.

“And your name is — ?”

“Hermione Granger,” says Hermione.

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,” says Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.

“Well, I don’t,” says Hermione bluntly. “There’s nothing written up there about using defensive spells.”

There is a short silence in which many members of the class turn their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard.

“Using defensive spells?” Professor Umbridge repeats with a little laugh. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren’t expecting to be attacked during class?”

“It would certainly make it more interesting.” I mumble.

“There will be no speaking out of turn Miss Pendragon.” Umbridge snaps. I glare up at the professor.

“We’re not going to use magic?” Ron speaks loudly.

“Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr. — ?”

“Weasley,” says Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.

Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turns her back on him. Harry, Hermione, and I immediately raise our hands too. Professor Umbridge’s pouchy eyes linger on Harry for a moment before she addresses Hermione.

“Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?”

“Yes,” says Hermione. “Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?”

“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?” asks Professor Umbridge in her falsely sweet voice.

“No, but —”

“Well then, I’m afraid you are not qualified to decide what the ‘whole point’ of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way —”

“There’s nothing risk-free about the real world.” I speak out unable to keep my anger contained.

“Detention Miss Pendragon you were warned before.” Professor Umbridge snarls at me. I slam my mouth shut so hard my teeth click, and I try to hold back the hard rush of energy that I know is my magic coming to the surface.

“What use is that?” says Harry loudly. “If we’re going to be attacked it won’t be in a —”

“Hand, Mr. Potter!” sings Professor Umbridge. So unfair she just hates me more for she knew me before. I clench to my chair tightly.

Harry thrusts his fist in the air. Professor Umbridge promptly turns away from him again, but now several other people have their hands up too.

“And your name is?” Professor Umbridge says to Dean.

“Dean Thomas.”

“Well, Mr. Thomas?”

“Well, it’s like Harry and Jamie said, isn’t it?” says Dean. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free —”

“I repeat,” says Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean, “do you expect to be attacked during my classes?”

“No, but —”

Professor Umbridge talks over him. “I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school,” she says, an unconvincing smile stretching her wide mouth, “but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed — not to mention,” she gives a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

“If you mean Professor Lupin,” pipes up Dean Thomas angrily, “he was the best we ever —”

“Hand, Mr. Thomas! As I was saying — you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group, and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day —”

“No we haven’t,” Hermione says, “we just —”

“Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!” Hermione puts up her hand; Professor Umbridge turns away from her. I’m now biting down on my lip to keep myself from having another outburst.

“It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you —”

“Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he?” says Dean Thomas hotly. “Mind you, we still learned loads —”

“Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!” trills Professor Umbridge. “Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?” she adds, staring at Parvati, whose hand has just shot up.

“Parvati Patil, and isn’t there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren’t we supposed to show that we can actually do the countercurses and things?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions,” says Professor Umbridge dismissively.

“Fat chance.” I hiss out quietly, and Hermione grabs my hand under the desk and squeezes it hard enough to leave fingernail marks.

“Without ever practicing them before?” says Parvati incredulously. “Are you telling us that the first time we’ll get to do the spells will be during our exam?”

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough —”

“And what good’s theory going to be in the real world?” says Harry loudly, his fist in the air again emphasizing my earlier point.

Professor Umbridge looks up. “This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world,” she says softly.

“So we’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s waiting out there?”

“There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh yeah?” says Harry. His temper, which seems to have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, is reaching boiling point I fear just like me.

“Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?” inquires Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice. I taste blood in my mouth having split my lip from biting down so hard on it.

“Hmm, let’s think . . .” says Harry in a mock thoughtful voice, “maybe Lord Voldemort?”

Ron gasps; Lavender Brown utters a little scream; Neville slips sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, does not flinch. She is staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.”

The classroom is silent and still. Everyone is staring at either Umbridge or Harry. “Now, let me make a few things quite plain.”

Professor Umbridge stands up and leans toward us, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.

“You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead —”

“He wasn’t dead,” says Harry angrily, “but yeah, he’s returned!”

“Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,” says Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at him.    “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.”

“It is NOT a lie!” says Harry. “I saw him, I fought him!”

“Detention, Mr. Potter!” says Professor Umbridge triumphantly. “Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock along with Miss Pendragon. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’”

Professor Umbridge sits down behind her desk again. Harry, however, stands up. He’s going to make this worse. Everyone is staring at him; Seamus looks half-scared, half-fascinated.

“Harry, no!” Hermione whispers in a warning voice, tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerks his arm out of her reach.

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?” Harry asks, his voice shaking.

There is a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of us, apart from Ron, Hermione, and me, have ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on the night that Cedric died. We stare avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who has raised her eyes and is staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face.

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accident,” she says coldly.

“It was murder,” says Harry. I can see him shaking. He has hardly talked to anyone about this, least of all thirty eagerly listening classmates. “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

Professor Umbridge’s face is quite blank. For a moment I think she is going to scream at him. Then she says, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

He kicks his chair aside, strides around Ron, Hermione, and me and up to the teacher’s desk.

Professor Umbridge pulls a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretches it out on the desk, dips her quill into a bottle of ink, and starts scribbling, hunched over. Nobody speaks. After a minute or so she rolls up the parchment and taps it with her wand; it seals itself seamlessly so that he can not open it.

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” says Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him. As Harry makes his way past me, I stand up as well shocking Harry.

“Miss Pendragon take your seat.” She snaps. I can’t stop the shaking in my hands now, and blue sparks are beginning to fizzle out of my clenched fists.

“No. I-I can’t stay here.” I say and quickly follow Harry out of the classroom leaving all my stuff behind. Out in the hall I let a shaky breath go and the blue fire sparks to life in my hands. Harry eyes me warily but says nothing.

We walk very fast along the corridor, the note to McGonagall clutched tight in Harry’s hand, and turning a corner walk slap into Peeves the Poltergeist, a wide-faced little man floating on his back in midair, juggling several inkwells.

“Why, it’s Potty Wee Potter, and his sidekick Dragongirl.” cackles Peeves, allowing two of the inkwells to fall to the ground where they smash and spatter the walls with ink; Harry jumps backward out of the way with a snarl. I merely raise my glowing hand to Peeves, who’s eyes widen in fear.

“Get out of it, Peeves.” Harry says darkly. For once Peeves does the proper thing and turns tail to go annoy someone else. I lower my hand shakily and Harry shoots me a worried look, though I can still tell he’s enraged.

“What on earth is going on out here, Potter, Pendragon?” Professor McGonagall snaps, as we stand there rigidly. “Why aren’t you in class?” She eyes my flaming hands warily.

“I’ve been sent to see you,” says Harry stiffly.

“I came along for— well…” I hold up my hands as explanation enough.

“Sent? What do you mean, sent?” Harry holds out the note from Professor Umbridge. Professor McGonagall takes it from him, frowning, slits it open with a tap of her wand, stretches it out, and begins to read. Her eyes zoom from side to side behind their square spectacles as she reads what Umbridge had written, and with each line they become narrower.

“Come in here, Potter. You too Pendragon.”

We follow her inside her study. The door closes automatically behind us. I start the exercise to calm myself down.

“Well?” says Professor McGonagall, rounding on us. “Is this true?”

“Is what true?” Harry asks, rather aggressively. “Professor?” he adds in an attempt to sound more polite.

“Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge and that Jamie instigated it?”

“Yes,” says Harry.

“I guess so.” I admit.

“You called her a liar?”

“Yes.”

“You told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?”

“Yes.” Professor McGonagall sits down behind her desk, frowning at Harry and me. Then she says, “Have a biscuit.”

“Have — what?” I sputter the magic dying out in my hands.

“Have a biscuit,” she repeats impatiently, indicating a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk. “And sit down.”

There was a previous occasion when Harry and I, expected to be caned by Professor McGonagall, but instead had been appointed by her to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. We sink into a chair opposite her and help ourselves to a Ginger Newt, feeling just as confused and wrong-footed as I had done on that occasion.

Professor McGonagall sets down Professor Umbridge’s note and looks very seriously at Harry and me.

“Potter, you need to be careful. You as well Pendragon I have a feeling I’ll get a note about you later as well. Misbehavior in Dolores Umbridge’s class could cost you much more than House points and a detention.”

“What do you — ?”

“Potter, use your common sense,” snaps Professor McGonagall, with an abrupt return to her usual manner. “You know where she comes from, you must know to whom she is reporting.”

The bell rings for the end of the lesson. Overhead and all around comes the elephantine sounds of hundreds of students on the move.

“The Minister has bad opinions of me already.” I state calmly. She shoots me a rueful look.

“At least there are two of you Pendragon, your brother at least has more sense when it comes to politics.” Professor McGonagall says.

“It says here she’s given you Harry detention every evening this week, starting tomorrow,” Professor McGonagall says, looking down at Umbridge’s note again.

“I at least have detention tomorrow.” I say casually trying to belay the feeling of anger and unease that comes over me.

“Every evening this week!” Harry repeats, horrified. “But, Professor, couldn’t you — ?”

“No, I couldn’t,” says Professor McGonagall flatly.

“But —”

“She is your teacher and has every right to give you detention. You will go to her room at five o’clock tomorrow for the first one. Just remember: Tread carefully around Dolores Umbridge.”

“But I was telling the truth!” says Harry, outraged. “Voldemort’s back, you know he is, Professor Dumbledore knows he is —”

“For heaven’s sake, Potter!” says Professor McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily (she winced horribly when he used Voldemort’s name). “Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It’s about keeping your head down and your temper under control!”

I make a face at that knowing that will be a hard thing to do for me. She stands up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and we stand too.

“Have another biscuit,” she says irritably, thrusting the tin at us.

“No, thanks,” says Harry coldly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps. We both take one.

“Thanks,” he says grudgingly.

“Didn’t you listen to Dolores Umbridge’s speech at the start-of-term feast, Potter?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Yeah . . . she said . . . progress will be prohibited or . . . well, it meant that . . . that the Ministry of Magic is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.”

Professor McGonagall eyes Harry for a moment, then sniffed, walking around her desk, and holds open the door for him.

“Well, I’m glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any rate,” she says, pointing him out of her office. I move to follow, but she stops me.

“Pendragon…”

“I know professor. I-I’m trying really hard.” I say dejectedly glancing down at my hands and then up to her. I’m surprised to see that the look on her face is soft and not judgmental.

“I know that Jamie. Just take care of yourself and watch out for those friends of yours. Now is not a time for any misguided adventures.”

I nod my head slowly and turn to leave. This has definitely been one long day, and its not even over yet. I knew that today was going to be a bad day.


	10. Detention with Dolores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 10- Detention with Dolores

 

Dinner in the Great Hall that night is not a pleasant experience for Harry and not at all that great for me. The news about his shouting match with Umbridge seems to have traveled exceptionally fast even by Hogwarts standards. I hear whispers all around me as we sit eating between Ron and Hermione. The funny thing is that none of the whisperers seem to mind us overhearing what they are saying about Harry — on the contrary, it is as though they are hoping he will get angry and start shouting again, so that they can hear his story firsthand.

“He says he saw Cedric Diggory murdered . . .”

“He reckons he dueled with You-Know-Who . . .”

“Come off it . . .”

“Who does he think he’s kidding?”

“Pur-lease . . .”

“What I don’t get,” says Harry in a shaking voice, laying down his knife and fork his hands are trembling too much to hold them steady, “is why they all believed the story two months ago when Dumbledore told them . . .”

“The thing is, Harry, I’m not sure they did,” says Hermione grimly. “Oh, let’s get out of here.”

She slams down her own knife and fork; Ron looks sadly at his half-finished apple pie but follows suit. I set my fork down having not been in the mood for food anyway. People stare at us all the way out of the Hall.

Before we can climb the stairs though I’m stopped.

“Jamie!” Ariana’s voice calls out from me. I freeze on the step I’m on before turning around to look at the worried Hufflepuff.

“Go on. We’ll wait for you.” Hermione says softly before ushering the boys up the rest of the first staircase. I clamber down the last few steps so that I’m in front of Ariana.

“Hey.” I say softly avoiding her gaze.

“Hey… I heard about what happened today…”

“He’s not crazy!”

“I know Jamie, believe me out of anyone I know. I’m just worried— about you. That’s all.” Ariana says. I look up and catch her brown eyes looking at me filled with so much worry.

“Oh— I’m all right Ari. I had some… issues with you know earlier but its okay now. I got over it.” I stutter.

“Jamie— that’s great! That means you’re getting better! I’m so proud of you.” Ariana exclaims pulling me into a tight hug rocking us back and forth. I blush furiously at being held this close to her.

“Its not that big a deal… loads of people are able to keep their temper. Anyway I-I got to go. You know Harry…” I trail off gesturing over my shoulder. She squeezes me one last time before letting me go.

“I understand, your friends need you but Jame… always know that I’m here for you.” She says growing serious. I smile widely at the girl firmly believing her with everything in my body.

“I know, catch you later.” I say turning back up the stairs at a jog to catch up with my friends at the top. As soon as I’m there Hermione has a grin on her face.

“Well that looked rather friendly.” She says in a singsong voice, earning confused looks from Harry and Ron.

“’Course it was Mione Dumbledore and I are friends.” I state giving the girl a look. Hermione only giggles in response, and turns back around to start walking again.

“Anyway back to what we were talking about. What d’you mean, you’re not sure they believed Dumbledore?” Harry asks Hermione incredulously.

“Look, you don’t understand what it was like after it happened,” says Hermione quietly. “You arrived back in the middle of the lawn clutching Cedric’s dead body. . . . None of us saw what happened in the maze. . . . We just had Dumbledore’s word for it that You-Know-Who had come back and killed Cedric and fought you.”

“Which is the truth!” says Harry loudly.

“We know Harry.” I say not liking the redundant argument that that line of statements could turn into.

“I know it is, Harry, so will you please stop biting my head off?” says Hermione wearily. “It’s just that before the truth could sink in, everyone went home for the summer, where they spent two months reading about how you’re a nutcase and Dumbledore’s going senile!”

Rain pounds on the windowpanes as we stride along the empty corridors back to Gryffindor Tower. I feel as though my first day has lasted a week, but I still have a mountain of homework to do before bed. A dull pounding pain is developing over my right eye. I glance out of a rain-washed window at the dark grounds as we turn into the Fat Lady’s corridor. There is still no light in Hagrid’s cabin.

“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” says Hermione, before the Fat Lady can ask.

“Aren’t you four a cheery lot?” She says sourly. The portrait swings open to reveal the hole behind and the four of us scramble back through it.

The common room is almost empty; nearly everyone is still down at dinner. Crookshanks uncoils himself from an armchair and trots to meet us, purring loudly, and when Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I take our four favorite chairs at the fireside he leaps lightly into Hermione’s lap and curls up there like a furry ginger cushion. I gaze into the flames, feeling drained and exhausted, not uncommon after a magic anger episode of mine.

“How can Dumbledore have let this happen?” Hermione cries suddenly, making us jump; Crookshanks leaps off her, looking affronted. She pounds the arms of her chair in fury, so that bits of stuffing leak out of the holes. “How can he let that terrible woman teach us? And in our O.W.L. year too!”

I’m too tired to even try and respond to that question.

“Well, we’ve never had great Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, have we?” says Harry. “You know what it’s like, Hagrid told us, nobody wants the job, they say it’s jinxed.”

“Yes, but to employ someone who’s actually refusing to let us do magic! What’s Dumbledore playing at?”

“And she’s trying to get people to spy for her,” says Ron darkly. “Remember when she said she wanted us to come and tell her if we hear anyone saying You-Know-Who’s back?”

“Of course she’s here to spy on us all, that’s obvious, why else would Fudge have wanted her to come?” snaps Hermione.

“Professor Dumbledore didn’t have much choice in this I’m afraid.” I say mildly not even bothering to speak up.

“Don’t start arguing again,” says Harry wearily, as Ron opens his mouth to retaliate. “Can’t we just . . . Let’s just do that homework, get it out of the way . . .”

We collect our schoolbags from a corner and return to the chairs by the fire. People are coming back from dinner now. Harry keeps his face averted from the portrait hole, but I know that he can still feel the stares that he’s getting.

“Shall we do Snape’s stuff first?” says Ron, dipping his quill into his ink. “‘The properties . . . of moonstone . . . and its uses . . . in potion-making . . .’” he mutters, writing the words across the top of his parchment as he speaks them. “There.” He underlines the title, then looks up expectantly at Hermione.

“So what are the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making?”

But Hermione is not listening; she is squinting over into the far corner of the room, where Fred, George, and Lee Jordan are now sitting at the center of a knot of innocent-looking first years, all of whom are chewing something that seems to have come out of a large paper bag that Fred is holding.

Oh this should be fun. I needed a distraction from my rather dreadful day.

“No, I’m sorry, they’ve gone too far,” she says, standing up and looking positively furious. “Come on, Ron.”

“I — what?” says Ron, plainly playing for time. “No — come on, Hermione — we can’t tell them off for giving out sweets . . .”

“You know perfectly well that those are bits of Nosebleed Nougat or — or Puking Pastilles or —”

“Fainting Fancies?” I suggest. Hermione glares at me.

“I can’t believe you encourage them Jamie.” She snarls.

One by one, as though hit over the heads with invisible mallets, the first years are slumping unconscious in their seats; some slide right onto the floor, others merely hang over the arms of their chairs, their tongues lolling out. Most of the people watching are laughing; Hermione, however, squares her shoulders and marches directly over to where Fred and George now stand with clipboards, closely observing the unconscious first years. Ron rises halfway out of his chair, hovers uncertainly for a moment or two, then mutters to Harry and me, “She’s got it under control,” before sinking as low in his chair as his lanky frame permits.

“That’s enough!” Hermione says forcefully to Fred and George, both of whom look up in mild surprise.

“Yeah, you’re right,” says George, nodding, “this dosage looks strong enough, doesn’t it?”

“I told you this morning, you can’t test your rubbish on students!”

“We’re paying them!” says Fred indignantly.

“I don’t care, it could be dangerous!”

“Rubbish,” says Fred, “We’ve tested everything out on Jamie before hand.”

That doesn’t seem to appease Hermione at all it just cases her to get angrier. I’m in for it tonight.

“Calm down, Hermione, they’re fine!” says Lee reassuringly as he walks from first year to first year, inserting purple sweets into their open mouths.

“Yeah, look, they’re coming round now,” says George.

A few of the first years are indeed stirring. Several look so shocked to find themselves lying on the floor, or dangling off their chairs, that I am sure Fred and George did not warn them what the sweets were going to do.

“Feel all right?” says George kindly to a small dark-haired girl lying at his feet.

“I-I think so,” she says shakily.

“Excellent,” says Fred happily, but the next second Hermione has snatched both his clipboard and the paper bag of Fainting Fancies from his hands.

“It is NOT excellent!”

“’Course it is, they’re alive, aren’t they?” says Fred angrily.

“You can’t do this, what if you made one of them really ill?”

“We’re not going to make them ill, we’ve already tested them all on ourselves and Jamie, this is just to see if everyone reacts the same —”

“If you don’t stop doing it, I’m going to —”

“Put us in detention?” says Fred in an I’d-like-to-see-you-try-it voice.

“Make us write lines?” says George, smirking.

Onlookers all over the room are laughing. Hermione draws herself up to her full height; her eyes are narrowed and her bushy hair seems to crackle with electricity.

“No,” she says, her voice quivering with anger, “but I will write to your mother.” I wince and slink down in my chair like Ron. If she writes to Molly I’m sure to get dragged into this as well, and I saw Ron’s howler back in second year. I’d prefer to not get one of those… ever.

“You wouldn’t,” says George, horrified, taking a step back from her.

“Oh, yes, I would,” says Hermione grimly. “I can’t stop you eating the stupid things yourselves, but you’re not giving them to first years.”

Fred and George look thunderstruck, and I sure feel it. It is clear that as far as they are concerned, Hermione’s threat is way below the belt (I agree). With a last threatening look at them, she thrusts Fred’s clipboard and the bag of Fancies back into his arms and stalks back to her chair by the fire.

Ron was now so low in his seat that his nose is roughly level with his knees.

“Thank you for your support, Ron,” Hermione says acidly.

“You handled it fine by yourself,” Ron mumbles.

“And you,” Hermione rounds on me and I flinch, “If I ever catch you testing their products I will write to Mrs. Weasley and I promise you, you will not like the outcome.”

I wince. “Mione…” I start.

“Don’t test me Jamie. I don’t want to see my best friend dead from some stupid product of theirs.” We all sit in silence for a few moments.

Hermione stares down at her blank piece of parchment for a few seconds, then says edgily, “Oh, it’s no good, I can’t concentrate now. I’m going to bed.”

She wrenches her bag open; I think she is about to put her books away, but instead she pulls out two misshapen woolly objects, places them carefully on a table by the fireplace, covers them with a few screwed-up bits of parchment and a broken quill, and stands back to admire the effect.

“What in the name of Merlin are you doing?” says Ron, watching her as though fearful for her sanity. I can’t say I blame him.

“They’re hats for house-elves,” she says briskly, now stuffing her books back into her bag. “I did them over the summer. I’m a really slow knitter without magic, but now I’m back at school I should be able to make lots more.”

“You’re leaving out hats for the house-elves?” says Ron slowly. “And you’re covering them up with rubbish first?”

“Yes,” says Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag onto her back.

“That’s not on,” says Ron angrily. “You’re trying to trick them into picking up the hats. You’re setting them free when they might not want to be free.”

Oh here we go again. I’m never going to be able to go to sleep tonight with Hermione complaining about Ron’s sensitivity of a sea slug.

“Of course they want to be free!” says Hermione at once, though her face is turning pink. “Don’t you dare touch those hats, Ron!”

She leaves. Ron waits until she has disappeared through the door to the girls’ dormitories, then clears the rubbish off the woolly hats.

“They should at least see what they’re picking up,” he says firmly. “Anyway . . .” He rolls up the parchment on which he wrote the title of Snape’s essay. “There’s no point trying to finish this now, I can’t do it without Hermione, I haven’t got a clue what you’re supposed to do with moonstones, have you?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m going to bed too.” He says getting up and brushing past Seamus to the boys’ dormitory. Ron stares at me for a second and I sigh.

“No use tonight Ron. I’m bone tired, and I have a feeling that tomorrow will be just as long as today.” I regretfully inform him. Ron makes a face as well but sighs heaving to his feet.

“You’re right. Night Jame I’ll see you tomorrow.” He tells me going up the boys’ steps. I sigh and trudge up the girls. When I get to my room I’m surprised to see that the light by Hermione’s bed is out and all her curtains are pulled closed. Oh well, its not like I wanted to talk to her anyway.

As soon as I’m changed and under my covers, the sweet relief of sleep comes over me, hopefully there will be no nightmares tonight.

* * *

 

The following day dawns just as leaden and rainy as the previous one. Hagrid is still absent from the staff table at breakfast.

“But on the plus side, no Snape today,” says Ron bracingly.

Hermione yawns widely and pours herself some coffee. She looks mildly pleased about something, and when Ron asks her what she was so happy about, she simply says, “The hats have gone. Seems the house-elves do want freedom after all.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Ron tells her cuttingly. “They might not count as clothes. They didn’t look anything like hats to me, more like woolly bladders.”

Hermione does not speak to him all morning. Harry and I sigh and exchange look with each other. What are we going to do about our friends?

Double Charms is succeeded by double Transfiguration. Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall both spend the first fifteen minutes of their lessons lecturing the class on the importance of O.W.L.s.

“What you must remember,” says little Professor Flitwick squeakily, perched as ever on a pile of books so that he can see over the top of his desk, “is that these examinations may influence your futures for many years to come! If you have not already given serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so. And in the meantime, I’m afraid, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice!”

We then spend more than an hour reviewing Summoning Charms, which according to Professor Flitwick are bound to come up in their O.W.L., and he rounds off the lesson by setting us our largest amount of Charms homework ever. So in other words a fairly easy class for me if not slightly boring.

It is the same, if not worse, in Transfiguration.

“You cannot pass an O.W.L.,” says Professor McGonagall grimly, “without serious application, practice, and study. I see no reason why everybody in this class should not achieve an O.W.L. in Transfiguration as long as they put in the work.” Neville makes a sad little disbelieving noise. “Yes, you too, Longbottom,” says Professor McGonagall. “There’s nothing wrong with your work except lack of confidence. So . . . today we are starting Vanishing Spells. These are easier than Conjuring Spells, which you would not usually attempt until N.E.W.T. level, but they are still among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your O.W.L.”

She is quite right; the Vanishing Spells horribly difficult. By the end of a double period, neither Harry nor Ron have managed to vanish the snails on which are practicing, though Ron says hopefully that he thinks his looks a bit paler. Mine grows some missing spots, which I find horribly amusing see a snail with half a shell. Hermione, on the other hand, successfully vanishes her snail on the third attempt, earning her a ten-point bonus for Gryffindor from Professor McGonagall. She is the only person not given homework; everybody else is told to practice the spell overnight, ready for a fresh attempt on their snails the following afternoon.

Now panicking slightly about the amount of homework we have to do, Harry, Ron, and I spend our lunch hour in the library looking up the uses of moonstones in potion-making. Still angry about Ron’s slur on her woolly hats, Hermione does not join us. By the time we reach Care of Magical Creatures in the afternoon, my head is aching again.

The day has become cool and breezy, and, as we walk down the sloping lawn towards Hagrid’s cabin on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, we feel the occasional drop of rain on our faces. Professor Grubbly-Plank stands waiting for the class some ten yards from Hagrid’s front door, a long trestle table in front of her laden with many twigs. As Harry, Ron, and I reach her, a loud shout of laughter sounds behind us; turning, we see Draco Malfoy striding towards them, surrounded by his usual gang of Slytherin cronies. He has clearly just said something highly amusing, because Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, and the rest continue to snigger heartily as they gather around the trestle table. Judging by the fact that all of them keep looking over at Harry, I am able to guess the subject of the joke without too much difficulty.

“Everyone here?” barks Professor Grubbly-Plank, once all the Slytherins and Gryffindors have arrived. “Let’s crack on then — who can tell me what these things are called?”

She indicates the heap of twigs in front of her. Hermione’s hand shoots into the air.   Behind her back, Malfoy does a buck-toothed imitation of her jumping up and down in eagerness to answer a question. Pansy Parkinson gives a shriek of laughter that turns almost at once into a scream, as the twigs on the table leap into the air and reveal themselves to be what looks like tiny pixieish creatures made of wood, each with knobbly brown arms and legs, two twiglike fingers at the end of each hand, and a funny, flat, barklike face in which a pair of beetle-brown eyes glitter.

“I don’t think they like her voice much.” I whisper to Harry and Ron, both who chuckle at me.

“Oooooh!” says Parvati and Lavender, thoroughly irritating me: Anyone would think that Hagrid never shows us impressive creatures; admittedly the flobberworms had been a bit dull, but the salamanders and hippogriffs were interesting enough, and the Blast-Ended Skrewts perhaps too much so.

“Kindly keep your voices down, girls!” says Professor Grubbly-Plank sharply, scattering a handful of what looks like brown rice among the stick-creatures, who immediately fall upon the food. “So — anyone know the names of these creatures? Miss Granger?”

“Bowtruckles,” says Hermione. “They’re tree-guardians, usually live in wand-trees.”

“Five points for Gryffindor,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank. “Yes, these are bowtruckles and, as Miss Granger rightly says, they generally live in trees whose wood is of wand quality. Anybody know what they eat?”

“Wood lice,” says Hermione promptly, which explains why what I took for grains of brown rice are moving. “But fairy eggs if they can get them.”

“Good girl, take another five points. So whenever you need leaves or wood from a tree in which a bowtruckle lodges, it is wise to have a gift of wood lice ready to distract or placate it. They may not look dangerous, but if angered they will gouge out human eyes with their fingers, which, as you can see, are very sharp and not at all desirable near the eyeballs. So if you’d like to gather closer, take a few wood lice and a bowtruckle — I have enough here for one between four — you can study them more closely. I want a sketch from each of you with all body parts labeled by the end of the lesson.”

Oh drawing… I think I can get behind a lesson like this. Harry clears his throat shooting me a nasty grin. I guess he could see the way my face lit up when she mentioned sketching. What can I say a girl likes to draw every once in a while.

The class surges forward around the trestle table. Harry deliberately circles around the back so that he ends up right next to Professor Grubbly-Plank I follow along.

“Where’s Hagrid?” he asks her, while everyone else is choosing bowtruckles.

“Never you mind,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank repressively, which has been her attitude last time Hagrid failed to turn up for a class too. Smirking all over his pointed face, Draco Malfoy leans across Harry and seizes the largest bowtruckle.

“Maybe,” says Malfoy in an undertone, so that only Harry and consequently me can hear him, “the stupid great oaf’s got himself badly injured.”

“Maybe you will if you don’t shut up,” says Harry out of the side of his mouth.

“Maybe he’s been messing with stuff that’s too big for him, if you get my drift.”

Malfoy walks away, smirking over his shoulder at Harry and me. I grab Harry’s arm and steer him over to Ron and Hermione.

They are squatting on the grass some distance away and attempting to persuade a bowtruckle to remain still long enough to draw it. I pull out parchment and quill, crouching down beside the others, and Harry relates in a whisper what Malfoy had just said.

“Dumbledore would know if something had happened to Hagrid,” says Hermione at once. “It’s just playing into Malfoy’s hands to look worried, it tells him we don’t know exactly what’s going on. We’ve got to ignore him, Harry. Here, hold the bowtruckle for a moment, just so I can draw its face . . .”

“Yes,” comes Malfoy’s clear drawl from the group nearest us, “Father was talking to the Minister just a couple of days ago, you know, and it sounds as though the Ministry’s really determined to crack down on substandard teaching in this place. So even if that overgrown moron does show up again, he’ll probably be sent packing straight away.”

“OUCH!”

Harry gripped the bowtruckle so hard that it almost snapped; it had just took a great retaliatory swipe at his hand with its sharp fingers, leaving two long deep cuts there. Harry drops it; Crabbe and Goyle, who have already been guffawing at the idea of Hagrid being sacked, laugh still harder as the bowtruckle sets off at full tilt towards the forest, a little, moving stickman soon swallowed up by the tree roots. When the bell echoes distantly over the grounds Harry rolls up his bloodstained bowtruckle picture and marches off to Herbology with his hand wrapped in a handkerchief of Hermione’s and Malfoy’s derisive laughter still ringing in his ears. I sigh, at least I was able to get my picture done. Ron wants to copy it though.

“If he calls Hagrid a moron one more time . . .” snarls Harry.

“Harry, don’t go picking a row with Malfoy, don’t forget, he’s a prefect now, he could make life difficult for you . . .” Hermione starts

“Wow, I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult life?” says Harry sarcastically.  Ron laughs, but Hermione frowns. Together we traipse across the vegetable patch. The sky still appears unable to make up its mind whether it wants to rain or not.

“I just wish Hagrid would hurry up and get back, that’s all,” says Harry in a low voice, as we reach the greenhouses. “And don’t say that Grubbly-Plank woman’s a better teacher!” he adds threateningly.

“I wasn’t going to,” says Hermione calmly.

“Because she’ll never be as good as Hagrid,” says Harry firmly. I’m sure that he’s fully aware that he just experienced an exemplary Care of Magical Creatures lesson and is thoroughly annoyed about it.

The door of the nearest greenhouse opens and some fourth years spill out of it, including Ginny.

“Hi,” she says brightly as she passes. “Hey Jamie a game of Exploding Snap later?”

“If I have time I have detention with Umbridge tonight, and a mountain of homework.” I reply. Ginny makes a face at that.

“That sucks, I can’t believe you and Harry have detention already. Mum is going to freak.” She says with a grimace. I return it and turn back to my class.

A few seconds later, Luna Lovegood emerges, trailing behind the rest of the class, a smudge of earth on her nose and her hair tied in a knot on the top of her head. When she sees Harry, her prominent eyes seemed to bulge excitedly and she makes a beeline straight for him. Many of our classmates turn curiously to watch. Luna takes a great breath and then says, without so much as a preliminary hello: “I believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back, and I believe you fought him and escaped from him.”

“Er — right,” says Harry awkwardly. Luna is wearing what looks like a pair of orange radishes for earrings, a fact that Parvati and Lavender seem to have noticed, as they are both giggling and pointing at her earlobes.

“You can laugh!” Luna says, her voice rising, apparently under the impression that Parvati and Lavender are laughing at what she said rather than what she is wearing.  “But people used to believe there were no such things as the Blibbering Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack!”

“Well, they were right, weren’t they?” says Hermione impatiently. “There weren’t any such things as the Blibbering Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

Luna gives her a withering look and flounces away, radishes swinging madly. Parvati and Lavender are not the only ones hooting with laughter now.

“D’you mind not offending the only people who believe me?” Harry asks Hermione as we make our way into class.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harry, you can do better than her,” says Hermione. “Ginny’s told me all about her, apparently she’ll only believe in things as long as there’s no proof at all. Well, I wouldn’t expect anything else from someone whose father runs The Quibbler.”

Ernie Macmillan steps up to Harry.

“I want you to know, Potter,” he says in a loud, carrying voice, “that it’s not only weirdos who support you. I personally believe you one hundred percent. My family have always stood firm behind Dumbledore, and so do I.”

“Er — thanks very much, Ernie,” says Harry, taken aback but pleased. Ernie’s words have certainly wiped the smile from Lavender Brown’s face. Ariana settles into her seat next to me, and I smile at the familiarity of having her in at least one of my classes.

To nobody’s surprise, Professor Sprout starts our lesson by lecturing them about the importance of O.W.L.s. I wish all the teachers will stop doing this; he is starting to get an anxious, twisted feeling in his stomach every time he remembers how much homework he has to do, a feeling that worsens dramatically when Professor Sprout gives us yet another essay at the end of class. Tired and smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprout’s preferred brand of fertilizer, the Gryffindors troop back up to the castle, none of them talking very much; it has been another long day.

I have a feeling that these aren’t going to stop anytime soon. As I am starving, and Harry and I have our first detention with Umbridge at five o’clock, we head straight for dinner without dropping off our bags in Gryffindor Tower so that we can bolt something down before facing whatever she has in store for us. We have barely reached the entrance of the Great Hall, however, when a loud and angry voice says, “Oy, Potter!”

“What now?” Harry mutters wearily, turning to face Angelina Johnson, who looks as though she is in a towering temper. I wince having received that look from her a few times during Chaser practice.

“I’ll tell you what now,” she says, marching straight up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her finger. “How come you’ve landed yourself in detention for five o’clock on Friday?”

“What?” says Harry. “Why . . . oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!”

“Now he remembers!” snarls Angelina. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted to do a tryout with the whole team, and find someone who fitted in with everyone? Didn’t I tell you I’d booked the Quidditch pitch specially? And now you’ve decided you’re not going to be there!”

“I didn’t decide not to be there!” says Harry, stung by the injustice of these words. “I got detention from that Umbridge woman, just because I told her the truth about You-Know-Who —”

“Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to let you off on Friday,” says Angelina fiercely, “and I don’t care how you do it, tell her You-Know-Who’s a figment of your imagination if you like, just make sure you’re there!”

She storms away. That can’t be good.

“You know what?” I say to Harry, Ron, and Hermione as we enter the Great Hall.  “I think we’d better check with Puddlemere United whether Oliver Wood’s been killed during a training session, because she seems to be channeling his spirit.”

“What d’you reckon are the odds of Umbridge letting you off on Friday?” says Ron skeptically to Harry, as we sit down at the Gryffindor table.

“Less than zero,” says Harry glumly, tipping lamb chops onto his plate and starting to eat. “Better try, though, hadn’t I? I’ll offer to do two more detentions or something, I dunno . . .” He swallows a mouthful of potato and adds, “I hope she doesn’t keep me too long this evening. You realize we’ve got to write three essays, practice Vanishing Spells for McGonagall, work out a countercharm for Flitwick, finish the bowtruckle drawing, and start that stupid dream diary for Trelawney?”

Ron moans and for some reason glances up at the ceiling.

“And it looks like it’s going to rain.”

“What’s that got to do with our homework?” says Hermione, her eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” says Ron at once, his ears reddening.

I finish eating my food quickly as I can for my stomach feels like it’s going to revolt at any moment with the thought of having to go to detention with Umbridge soon.

At five to five Harry and I bid the other two good-bye and set off for Umbridge’s office on the third floor. When Harry knocks on the door she says, “Come in,” in a sugary voice. We enter cautiously, looking around.

He has known this office under three of its previous occupants. In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart lived here it has been plastered in beaming portraits of its owner. When Lupin occupied it, it is likely you will meet some fascinating Dark creature in a cage or tank if you come to call. In the impostor Moody’s days it was packed with various instruments and artifacts for the detection of wrongdoing and concealment.

Now, however, it looks totally unrecognizable. The surfaces have all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There are several vases full of dried flowers, each residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls is a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large Technicolored kitten wearing a different bow around its neck.  These are so foul that I stare at them, transfixed, until Professor Umbridge speaks again.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter, Miss Pendragon.”

I start and look around. I did not notice her at first because she is wearing a luridly flowered set of robes that blend only too well with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

“Evening,” Harry says stiffly.

“Hello.” I say lightly.

“Well, sit down,” she says, pointing towards a small table draped in lace beside which she has drawn up two straight-backed chairs. Two pieces of blank parchment lay on the table, apparently waiting for us. This should be boring.

“Er,” says Harry, without moving. “Professor Umbridge? Er — before we start, I-I wanted to ask you a . . . a favor.”

Her bulging eyes narrow.

“Oh yes?”

“Well I’m . . . I’m on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five o’clock on Friday and I was — was wondering whether I could skip detention that night and do it — do it another night . . . instead . . .”

“Oh no,” says Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looks as though she just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. “Oh no, no, no. This is your punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr. Potter, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one’s convenience. No, you will come here at five o’clock tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and you will do your detentions as planned. I think it rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I am trying to teach you.”

I grip the back of my chair tightly, and Professor Umbridge looks at me with a raised eyebrow. I release the chair mortified that she might know something about my magic.

With a small sigh Harry slumps down into his chair, and I follow taking my seat next to him.

“There,” says Umbridge sweetly, “we’re getting better at controlling our temper already, aren’t we? Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Mr. Potter. No, not with your quill,” she adds, as Harry bends down to open his bag. “You’re going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are.”

She hands him a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point.

“I want you to write ‘I must not tell lies,’” she tells him softly, before turning to me. “Miss Pendragon I’d like you to write ‘I must control my temper’.” I grit my teeth at that statement. It hurts because I’m trying so hard to control it when I never had a problem before. Now it’s very hard to, and its being used against me at every corner.

“How many times?” Harry asks, with a creditable imitation of politeness.

“Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in,” says Umbridge sweetly. “Off you go.”

She moves over to her desk, sits down, and bends over a stack of parchment that looks like essays for marking. I raise the sharp black quill and then realize what is missing.

“You haven’t given us any ink,” I say.

“Oh, you won’t need ink,” says Professor Umbridge with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.

I place the point of the quill on the paper and write: I must control my temper.

He let out a gasp of pain. The words have appeared on the parchment in what appears to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words have appeared on the back of my left hand, cut into my skin as though traced there by a scalpel — yet even as I stare at the shining cut, the skin heals over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth.

I looked around at Umbridge. She is watching us, her wide, toadlike mouth stretches in a smile. Harry is looking at her and me incredulously.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” says Harry quietly. I merely stare at her trying to keep the tears that want to fall back.

I look back at the parchment, place the quill upon it once more, write I must not control my temper, and feel the searing pain on the back of my hand for a second time; once again the words have been cut into my skin, once again they heal over seconds later.

And on it goes. Again and again Harry and I wrote the words on the parchment in what I soon come to realize is not ink, but my own blood. And again and again the words are cut into the back of my hand, healed, and then reappear the next time I set quill to parchment.

Darkness falls outside Umbridge’s window. I does not ask when I will be allowed to stop. I do not even check my watch. I know she is watching us for signs of weakness and I am not going to show any, not even if I have to sit here all night, cutting open my own hand with this quill. . . .

“Come here,” she says, after what seems hours. I stand up. My hand is stinging painfully. When I look down at it I see that the cut has healed, but that the skin there is red raw.

“Hand,” she says.

I slowly hand it over to her wincing when she runs her finger over the red skin and tuts. She releases my hand and grabs Harry’s. I hold my injured hand to my body trying to sort out just exactly what I’m feeling in the storm of emotions I’m experiencing.

“Tut, tut, I don’t seem to have made much of an impression yet,” she says, smiling. “Well, we’ll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won’t we? Miss Pendragon for your disappearing act in class yesterday I’ve added another two days to you punishment so I’ll see you tomorrow as well.”

I grimace and follow after Harry without a word. The school is quite deserted; it is surely past midnight. We walk slowly up the corridor he speaks only when he’s sure she won’t hear us.

“Are you all right Jamie?” Harry asks me tightly. I stick out my hand to show him and he glares down at the red raw skin where you can read my longer message than his.

“I’m fine Harry are you?” I respond. He nods his head jerkily before glancing at his watch.

“Come on Jamie its past midnight we need to get some sleep.” He tells me, and I nod my head following behind Harry as he breaks out into a run.

* * *

 

Harry was drowning under incomplete homework. I guess that he had actually manage to get some sleep last night unlike me. Between the pain in my hand, my head, and the chill the keeps running through my body, I couldn’t fall asleep. So in the hours that everyone else was enjoying their restful sleep, I scratched away at my homework trying to forget and ignore everything that happened.

By the time six am comes around, I’m putting the final touches on the last sentence of my last essay. I heave an exhausted sigh setting my quill down, and rubbing my hands over my face. Throughout the night I had to keep checking my quill to make sure that it didn’t turn into her quill suddenly.

I close all of my books and head to get a shower before most of the other girls are up. Maybe I can find a second wind somewhere in there. Once I’m ready for the day after pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I clamber down the stairs with my bag. To my shock I find Harry scribbling furiously at one of the tables by the windows with Ron sitting across from him.

I make my way over to the boys and slide down into a chair next to Ron closing my eyes.

“Wow Jame, you look like hell.” Ron says ever so tactfully. I pop open an eye to glare at him.

“Did you sleep at all Jamie?” Harry asks me sparing me a glance from his work.

“No… I was up all night. I couldn’t fall asleep so I decided to be useful. Got all my work done at least.” I say tiredly. Ron’s mouth falls open and Harry gives me a rueful look.

Harry skips breakfast to finish making up a dream for his dream journal. “What’d you put?” Harry asks me.

“I was flying on my broom during a Quidditch game, and a bludger hit me straight in the face… I couldn’t remember the rest because dream me passed out.” I say with a wry smile. Harry rolls his eyes at me, and Ron chuckles. I still can’t believe that he’s skipping breakfast to hang out with us. This must be a first that his stomach is not the priority.

“That’ll have to do,” Harry says, slamming the diary shut as it gets time for class, “I’ve said I dreamed I was buying a new pair of shoes, she can’t make anything weird out of that, can she?”

We hurry off to North Tower together. “How was detention with Umbridge, anyway? What did she make you do?” Ron asks us, looking between the pair of us.

Harry hesitates for a fraction of a second, then says, “Lines.”

“That’s not too bad, then, eh?” says Ron.

“Nope,” I reply.

“Hey — I forgot — did she let you off for Friday?”

“No,” says Harry. Ron groans sympathetically.

It was another bad day. I finally managed to make my snail disappear, but Harry was one of the worst in the class. He skips lunch to finish his drawing, but I’m finally hungry enough to brave lunch. I had to fend off Hermione, Ginny, Ariana, and Luka’s worried questions of how bad I looked. Don’t they know that they should not tell a girl that they don’t look good?

The rest of the day goes on worse. Professors McGonagall, Grubbly-Plank, and Sinistra give us yet more homework, which I have no prospect of finishing that evening because of my second detention with Umbridge. To cap it all, Angelina Johnson tracks Harry down at dinner again and, on learning that he will not be able to attend Friday’s Keeper tryouts, tell him she is not at all impressed by his attitude and that she expects players who wish to remain on the team to put training before their other commitments.

“I’m in detention!” Harry yells after her as she stalks away. “D’you think I’d rather be stuck in a room with that old toad or playing Quidditch?”

“At least it’s only lines,” says Hermione consolingly, as Harry sinks back onto his bench and looks down at his steak-and-kidney pie. “It’s not as if it’s a dreadful punishment, really . . .”

I grit my teeth giving a subtle glance to my left hand, which is still a little red. Harry opens his mouth to speak but then closes it nodding his head. I glance at Harry wondering if we should tell them what happened. He shakes his head slightly at me and I sigh. They wouldn’t understand anyway.

“I can’t believe how much homework we’ve got,” says Ron miserably.

“Well, why didn’t you do any last night?” Hermione asks him. “Where were you anyway?”

“I was . . . I fancied a walk,” says Ron shiftily. Yeah and that’s so believable.

* * *

 

The second detention is just as bad as the previous one. The skin on the back of Harry’s and my hand becomes irritated more quickly now, red and inflamed; I think it unlikely to keep healing as effectively for long. Soon the cut will remain etched in my hand and Umbridge will, perhaps, be satisfied. I let no moan of pain escape me, however, and from the moment of entering the room to the moment of our dismissal, again past midnight, we say nothing but “Good evening” and “Good night.”

Once back in the common room Harry and I get to work on homework even though we’re both exhausted. Once the clock strikes three, I’ve managed to get most of the homework done, and Harry sends me to bed since I got no sleep last night, and a few hours tonight will do me some good.

Thursday passes in a haze of tiredness. Ron seems very sleepy too, though I can not see why he should be. Our third detention passes in the same way as the previous two, except that after two hours the words “I must control my temper” does not fade from the back of my hand, but remains scratched there, oozing droplets of blood. The pause in the pointed quill’s scratching makes Professor Umbridge look up.

“Ah,” she says softly, moving around her desk to examine my hand herself. “Good. That ought to serve as a reminder to you, oughtn’t it? You may leave for tonight.”

She looks at Harry’s to see that the same has happened. “You too Mr. Potter.”

“Do I still have to come back tomorrow?” asks Harry, picking up his schoolbag with his left hand rather than his smarting right. I cradle my left hand as I start for the door, silently thankful that my detentions are over now.

“Oh yes,” says Professor Umbridge, smiling widely as before. “Yes, I think we can etch the message a little deeper with another evening’s work.” I wince and shoot Harry a sympathetic look as we start our walk back to the tower.

“Harry…” I start. He flicks his gaze to me shortly.

“Not tonight Jamie.” He mumbles. We walk in silence for a little while longer.

“Ron?” I say.

We have reach the top of the stairs, turn right, and almost walk into Ron, who is lurking behind a statue of Lachlan the Lanky, clutching his broomstick. He gives a great leap of surprise when he sees Harry and me attempting to hide his new Cleansweep Eleven behind his back.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks him.

“Er — nothing. What are you doing?” Harry frowns at him.

“Come on, you can tell me! What are you hiding here for?”

“I’m — I’m hiding from Fred and George, if you must know,” says Ron. “They just went past with a bunch of first years, I bet they’re testing stuff on them again, I mean, they can’t do it in the common room now, can they, not with Hermione there.”

He is talking in a very fast, feverish way.

“But what have you got your broom for, you haven’t been flying, have you?” I ask.

“I — well — well, okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t laugh, all right?” Ron says defensively, turning redder with every second. “I-I thought I’d try out for Gryffindor Keeper now I’ve got a decent broom. There. Go on. Laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” says Harry. Ron blinks. “It’s a brilliant idea! It’d be really cool if you got on the team! I’ve never seen you play Keeper, are you good?”

“I’m not bad,” says Ron, who looks immensely relieved at Harry’s reaction.

“Charlie, Fred, and George always made me Keep for them when they were training during the holidays.”

“He’s really not that bad. I have to work a little harder to get the quaffle around him.” I say seriously.

“So you’ve been practicing tonight?” Harry asks.

“Every evening since Tuesday . . . just on my own, though, I’ve been trying to bewitch Quaffles to fly at me, but it hasn’t been easy and I don’t know how much use it’ll be.” Ron looks nervous and anxious. “Fred and George are going to laugh themselves stupid when I turn up for the tryouts. They haven’t stopped taking the mickey out of me since I got made a prefect.”

“I wish I was going to be there,” says Harry bitterly, as we set off together towards the common room.

“I’ll be there Ron. Don’t worry I’ll try and make them lay off you a little.” I assure him, wincing as I move my bad hand.

“Yeah, so do — Harry, what’s that on the back of your hand?” Ron says.

Harry, who has just scratched his nose with his free right hand, tries to hide it, but has as much success as Ron with his Cleansweep.

“It’s just a cut — it’s nothing — it’s —”

But Ron has grabbed Harry’s forearm and pulls the back of Harry’s hand up level with his eyes. There is a pause, during which he stares at the words carved into the skin, then he releases Harry, looking sick. He turns to me and before I can fend him off he grabs my left arm looking over my hand. If its possible I would think that steam is coming out of his ears.

“I thought you said she was giving you lines?”

Harry hesitates and I glance at him wearily, Ron had been honest with us, so he tells Ron the truth about the hours we have been spending in Umbridge’s office.

“The old hag!” Ron says in a revolted whisper as we come to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, who is dozing peacefully with her head against her frame. “She’s sick! Go to McGonagall, say something!”

“No,” says Harry at once. “I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she’s got to me.”

“Got to you? You can’t let her get away with this!”

“I don’t know how much power McGonagall’s got over her,” says Harry.

“Dumbledore, then, tell Dumbledore!”

“No,” says Harry flatly.

“Why not?”

“He’s got enough on his mind,” says Harry. I have a feeling that’s not the entire reason though.

“Well, I reckon you should —” Ron begins, but he is interrupted by the Fat Lady, who has been watching us sleepily and now bursts out, “Are you going to give me the password or will I have to stay awake all night waiting for you to finish your conversation?”

Sheepishly we tell the password and climb through the hole. “You just better hope mum doesn’t find out about this Jamie. She’d go ballistic.” Ron says worriedly. I freeze where I stand suddenly terrified for a whole different reason.

* * *

Friday dawns sullen and sodden as like every other day this week has. My hand has stopped bleeding but is still angry looking as ever, so I perform a quick color changing charm on my white bandage to try and make it look more like skin color. Harry looks thoroughly depressed at the fact that he’s not going to get to go to the Keeper tryouts today.

As much as I would love to be excited about this thing my hand is literally killing me. I’m pretty sure that I will not be able to fly all that well without opening up my hand again. It sickens me as well that Harry has to go through yet another session with that evil gargoyle.

As the day drags on I try to increase the hand movements that I attempt besides from writing with that hand. If I’m going to even try flying I’m going to have to get more motion back.

After dinner when Harry goes to Umbridge’s office for his last appointment I head back to the tower to get changed into my Quidditch gear. As I come back down the stairs I’m met with Fred and George dressed in the same red and gold warm up gear that I am holding our brooms.

“I have to admit. Its good to be back in Quidditch gear.” I say with a grin on my face. Fred and George mimic my grin and Fred throws his arm around my shoulder.

“Well we best be not keeping Angie waiting on us.” Fred says with a slight grimace.

“Yeah she’s putting in to become the next Wood at this rate.” George comments with a shudder.

At that we start out of the common room and out of the castle. We make it to the pitch a few minutes late, and that sets Angelina off on a tirade about our lack of respect and that if we keep it up she’s going to be looking for new beaters and a chaser on top of a keeper.

Surprisingly Ron was there early warming up with the other candidates. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey Hooper are also on the pitch with him. “I’m glad you’re not in detention Pendragon.” Angelina mutters truthfully. I shrug my shoulder flexing my hand hoping that this isn’t going to be a giant mistake as I fix my gloves over both hands.

Angelina wastes no time and takes no prisoners. She runs the whole team and all three potential keepers through rigorous challenges and drills trying to estimate the best of them. I route for Ron internally but I can’t help but see that he’s not the best flyer out there.

At the end of the sessions we all gather around our new captain. “Well I want to start off by saying that everyone flew well today but there can only be one keeper on our team. The keeper for the team this year will be… Weasley.” She announces. I can’t help but feel shocked, though extremely happy him.

Hooper starts cursing and Frobisher shrugs her shoulders and turns to go pack up her gear. I go over and congratulate Ron on his success while Angelina confers with Fred, George, and Katie Bell. We all pack up the pitch and make our way back to the tower for a celebration. The niggling worry comes back to the front of my mind for Harry.

I really hate that he had to go back there another time. My hand is really starting to hurt. I wriggle out of my glove and wince at the blood coating the back of my hand. I guess I really wasn’t ready for strenuous activity like this.

When we return to the tower I quickly run up to my room to change out of my uniform and clean up the bandage and the blood from my reopened cut.

When I get back downstairs I see that Harry has made it back from his detention.

“Harry, I did it, I’m in, I’m Keeper!” Ron cries racing forward to greet Harry. I hover nearby worried about the obvious look of pain on his face. Or maybe I’ve just been around Harry too many times when he’s tried to fake normalcy.

“What? Oh — brilliant!” says Harry, trying to smile naturally.

“Have a butterbeer.” Ron presses a bottle onto him. “I can’t believe it — where’s Hermione gone?”

“She’s there,” says Fred, who is also swigging butterbeer, and points to an armchair by the fire. Hermione is dozing in it, her drink tipping precariously in her hand.

“Well, she said she was pleased when I told her,” says Ron, looking slightly put out.

“Let her sleep,” says George hastily. It is a few moments before I notice that several of the first years gather around us bear unmistakable signs of recent nosebleeds.

“You’re lucky she’s asleep.” I point out and the twins grimace at me looking over at the sleeping prefect.

“Come here, Ron, and see if Oliver’s old robes fit you,” calls Katie Bell. “We can take off his name and put yours on instead . . .”

As Ron moves away, Angelina comes striding up to Harry thwarting my plan of seeing if he’s okay.

“Sorry I was a bit short with you earlier, Potter,” she says abruptly. “It’s stressful, this managing lark, you know, I’m starting to think I was a bit hard on Wood sometimes.” She is watching Ron over the rim of her goblet with a slight frown on her face.

“Look, I know he’s your best mate, but he’s not fabulous,” she says bluntly. “I think with a bit of training he’ll be all right, though. He comes from a family of good Quidditch players. I’m banking on him turning out to have a bit more talent than he showed today, to be honest. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey Hooper both flew better this evening, but Hooper’s a real whiner, he’s always moaning about something or other, and Vicky’s involved in all sorts of societies, she admitted herself that if training clashed with her Charm Club she’d put Charms first. Anyway, we’re having a practice session at two o’clock tomorrow, so just make sure you’re there this time. And do me a favor and help Ron as much as you can, okay? Same with you Pendragon” She calls out to me making me jump from my distracted mind.

We nod and Angelina strolls back Fred and George. Harry moves over to sit next to Hermione and I follow, she wakes with a jerk as he puts down his bag.

“Oh, Harry, it’s you. . . . Good about Ron, isn’t it?” she says blearily. “I’m just so — so — so tired,” she yawns. “I was up until one o’clock making more hats. They’re disappearing like mad!”

And sure enough, now that I look, there are woolly hats concealed all around the room where unwary elves might accidentally pick them up. I sigh and shake my head at Hermione’s persistence. I highly doubt that house elves are actually wearing them though.

“Great,” says Harry distractedly. “Listen, Hermione, I was just up in Umbridge’s office and she touched my arm . . .”

Hermione and I listen closely. When Harry has finished she says slowly, “You’re worried that You-Know-Who’s controlling her like he controlled Quirrell?”

“Well,” says Harry, dropping his voice, “it’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

I can’t believe that Harry’s scar is hurting again. Maybe Umbridge is actually evil.

“I suppose so,” says Hermione, though she sounds unconvinced. “But I don’t think he can be possessing her the way he possessed Quirrell, I mean, he’s properly alive again now, isn’t he, he’s got his own body, he wouldn’t need to share someone else’s. He could have her under the Imperius Curse, I suppose . . .”

I watch Fred, George, and Lee Jordan juggling empty butterbeer bottles for a moment. Then Hermione says, “But last year your scar hurt when nobody was touching you, and didn’t Dumbledore say it had to do with what You-Know-Who was feeling at the time? I mean, maybe this hasn’t got anything to do with Umbridge at all, maybe it’s just coincidence it happened while you were with her?”

“She’s evil,” says Harry flatly. “Twisted.”

“I have to agree with him there.” I say softly.

“She’s horrible, yes, but . . . Harry, I think you ought to tell Dumbledore your scar hurt.” Hermione says.

“I’m not bothering him with this. Like you just said, it’s not a big deal. It’s been hurting on and off all summer — it was just a bit worse tonight, that’s all —”

“Harry, I’m sure Dumbledore would want to be bothered by this —”

“Yeah,” says Harry, before he can stop himself, “that’s the only bit of me Dumbledore cares about, isn’t it, my scar?”

“Don’t say that, it’s not true!”

“I think I’ll write and tell Sirius about it, see what he thinks —”

“Harry, you can’t put something like that in a letter!” says Hermione, looking alarmed. “Don’t you remember, Moody told us to be careful what we put in writing! We just can’t guarantee owls aren’t being intercepted anymore!”

“All right, all right, I won’t tell him, then!” says Harry irritably. He gets to his feet.  “I’m going to bed. Tell Ron for me, will you?”

“Oh no,” says Hermione, looking relieved, “if you’re going that means I can go without being rude too, I’m absolutely exhausted and I want to make some more hats tomorrow. Listen, you can help me if you like, it’s quite fun, I’m getting better, I can do patterns and bobbles and all sorts of things now.”

Harry looks into her face, which is shining with glee, and tries to look as though he is vaguely tempted by this offer.

“Er . . . no, I don’t think I will, thanks,” he says. “Er — not tomorrow. I’ve got loads of homework to do . . .”

He gets up to hurry away to his room, but I grab him by the stairs. “Harry! Are you okay?” I ask lowering my voice so that no one can hear me.

“I’m fine Jamie.” Harry brushes me off climbing the stairs. I look up the stairs after him and sigh.

“Jamie…” Hermione starts. I quick run over to the girls’ dorm and rush up the stairs. I am way too exhausted to be knitting for elves that do not want scarves. Once I’m in my bed, I sigh in exhaustion. This has been one of the longest weeks of my life, I swear.


	11. Percy and Padfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 11- Percy and Padfoot

 

Saturday morning I decided that the best thing to do was sleep in. I think that I deserved it after all the pain and sleepless nights I went through. So indeed I only came out of my covers after Hermione said that it was breakfast time, and that’d she would drag me out of bed if I did not get up and come down with her.

I sleepily followed her through the halls, trying not to think about the lingering pain that was still in my left hand. Thankfully it had stopped bleeding so now there is only the obvious redness that I have to try and cover up. Once I sit down across from Ron at the table though, I’m distracted by all the food laid out.

It isn’t for a few more minutes until Harry makes his way into the Great Hall and there is a new look on his face— one that is particularly dopey looking. He sits down next to me with a sigh across from Ron and Hermione.

“Morning.” Harry greets us all brightly. Frankly I’m shocked. I was not expecting him to look or act this happy today at all. Something huge must have happened. Maybe Umbridge was sacked— or she decided that she missed the Ministry so much that she decided to go back.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” says Ron, eyeing Harry in surprise.

“Erm . . . Quidditch later,” says Harry happily, pulling a large platter of bacon and eggs towards him. I sigh; I guess it was too much to ask for from the universe.

“Oh . . . yeah . . .” says Ron. He puts down the bit of toast he is eating and takes a large swig of pumpkin juice. Then he says, “Listen . . . you don’t fancy going out a bit earlier with me, do you? Just to — er — give me some practice before training? So I can, you know, get my eye in a bit . . .”

“Yeah, okay,” says Harry.

“I’m always up for a little flying.” I say tentatively still worried a little about my hand.

“Look, I don’t think you should,” says Hermione seriously, “Jamie is the only one out of the three of you who is the most caught up on her homework —”

But she breaks off; the morning post is arriving and, as usual, the Daily Prophet is soaring towards her in the beak of a screech owl, which lands perilously close to the sugar bowl and holds out a leg; Hermione pushes a Knut into its leather pouch, takes the newspaper, and scans the front page critically as the owl takes off again.

“Anything interesting?” says Ron; I smile — I know Ron is keen to get her off the subject of homework.

“No,” she sighs, “just some guff about the bass player in the Weird Sisters getting married . . .”

She opens the paper and disappears behind it. Harry devotes himself to another helping of eggs and bacon; Ron is staring up at the high windows, looking slightly preoccupied, and I finish off the last of my toast.

“Wait a moment,” says Hermione suddenly. “Oh no . . . Sirius!”

“What’s happened?” says Harry, and he snatches at the paper so violently that it rips down the middle so that he and Hermione are holding half each.

“‘The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer . . . blah blah blah . . . is currently hiding in London!’” Hermione reads from her half in an anguished whisper.

“Lucius Malfoy, I’ll bet anything,” says Harry in a low, furious voice. “He did recognize Sirius on the platform . . .”

“What?” says Ron, looking alarmed. “You didn’t say —”

“Shh!” we all hush him.

“. . . ‘Ministry warns Wizarding community that Black is very dangerous . . . killed thirteen people . . . broke out of Azkaban . . .’ the usual rubbish,” Hermione concludes, laying down her half of the paper and looking fearfully at Harry, Ron, and me. “Well, he just won’t be able to leave the house again, that’s all,” she whispers. “Dumbledore did warn him not to.”

Harry looks down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he had torn off.

“Hey!” he says, flattening his side it down so we can all see it. “Look at this!”

“I’ve got all the robes I want,” says Ron.

“No,” says Harry, “look . . . this little piece here . . .”

Ron, Hermione, and I bend closer to read it; the item is barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of a column. It is headlined:

 

TRESPASS AT MINISTRY

Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the Wizengamot charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watchwizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to force his way through a top-security door at one o’clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak in his own defense, was convicted on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.

 

“Sturgis Podmore?” says Ron slowly, “but he’s that bloke who looks like his head’s been thatched, isn’t he? He’s one of the Ord —”

“Ron, shh!” says Hermione, casting a terrified look around us.

“The Ministry means business.” I whisper slightly terrified of the system that my family had helped put in place.

“Six months in Azkaban!” whispers Harry, shocked. “Just for trying to get through a door!”

“Don’t be silly, it wasn’t just for trying to get through a door — what on earth was he doing at the Ministry of Magic at one o’clock in the morning?” breathes Hermione.

“D’you reckon he was doing something for the Order?” Ron mutters.

“What else could it be for?” I reason.

“Wait a moment . . .” says Harry slowly. “Sturgis was supposed to come and see us off, remember?”

We turn our gazes to Harry.

“Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going to King’s Cross, remember? And Moody was all annoyed because he didn’t turn up, so that doesn’t seem like he was supposed to be on a job for them, does it?”

“Well, maybe they didn’t expect him to get caught,” says Hermione.

“It could be a frame-up!” Ron exclaims excitedly. “No — listen!” he goes on, dropping his voice dramatically at the threatening look on Hermione’s face. “The Ministry suspects he’s one of Dumbledore’s lot so — I dunno — they lured him to the Ministry, and he wasn’t trying to get through a door at all! Maybe they’ve just made something up to get him!”

There is a pause while we consider this. I’m not so sure if that’s plausible; Hermione, on the other hand, looks rather impressed and says, “Do you know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that were true.”

She folds up her half of the newspaper thoughtfully. When Harry lays down his knife and fork she seems to come out of a reverie.

“Right, well, I think we should tackle that essay for Sprout on Self-Fertilizing Shrubs first, and if we’re lucky we’ll be able to start McGonagall’s Inanimatus Conjurus before lunch . . .”

I grimace at the thought of tackling more homework so soon. I’m still not recovered from all the stuff I did yesterday.

“I mean, we can do it tonight,” says Ron, as he, Harry, and I walk down the sloping lawns towards the Quidditch pitch, our broomsticks over our shoulders, Hermione’s dire warnings that we will fail all our O.W.L.s still ringing in our ears. I only reckon that I have to get four O.W.L.s to please Molly since the twins got three between the pair of them. “And we’ve got tomorrow. She gets too worked up about work, that’s her trouble . . .” There is a pause and he adds, in a slightly more anxious tone, “D’you think she meant it when she said we weren’t copying from her?”

“Yeah, I do,” says Harry. “Still, this is important too, we’ve got to practice if we want to stay on the Quidditch team . . .”

“Yeah and you still have some of my work. I’ve got most of it cleared out, except for the stuff assigned on Friday.” I add in.

“Yeah, that’s right,” says Ron in a heartened tone. “And we have got plenty of time to do it all . . .”

I glance over to my right as we approach the Quidditch pitch, to where the trees of the Forbidden Forest are swaying darkly.

We collect balls from the cupboard in the changing room and set to work, Ron guarding the three tall goalposts, Harry and I playing Chaser and trying to get the Quaffle past Ron.

Harry thinks Ron is pretty good and I agree; he blocks three-quarters of the goals I attempt to put past him and plays better the longer we practice. After a couple of hours we return to the school, where we eat lunch, during which Hermione makes it quite clear that she thinks we are irresponsible, then return to the Quidditch pitch for the real training session. All our teammates but Angelina are already in the changing room when we enter.

“All right, Ron?” says George, winking at him.

“Yeah,” says Ron, who has become quieter and quieter all the way down to the pitch.

“You’ll be fine Ron. We practiced a lot today and you did okay.” I tell him rotating my left arm, the muscles sore from all the work that they have already done. Katie shoots me an anxious look.

“Don’t tell me you’re injured already Pendragon?” She says coming over and helping me stretch out my arm and shoulder. I shake my head at her and turn back into the conversation going on around us.

“Ready to show us all up, Ickle Prefect?” says Fred, emerging tousle-haired from the neck of his Quidditch robes, a slightly malicious grin on his face.

“Shut up,” says Ron, stony-faced, pulling on his own team robes for the first time. They fit him well considering they had been Oliver Wood’s, who is rather broader in the shoulder.

“Okay everyone,” says Angelina, entering from the Captain’s office, already changed. “Let’s get to it; Katie and Fred, if you can just bring the ball crate out for us. Oh, and there are a couple of people out there watching but I want you to just ignore them, all right?”

Oh I really don’t like the sound of that. Something in her would-be casual voice makes me think I might know who the uninvited spectators are, and sure enough, when we leave the changing room for the bright sunlight of the pitch it is to a storm of catcalls and jeers from the Slytherin Quidditch team and assorted hangers-on, who are grouped halfway up the empty stands and whose voices echo loudly around the stadium.

“What’s that Weasley’s riding?” Malfoy calls in his sneering drawl. “Why would anyone put a Flying Charm on a moldy old log like that?”

Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson guffaws and shrieks with laughter. Ron mounts his broom and kicks off from the ground and Harry, and I follow him, watching his ears turn red from behind.

“Ignore them,” Harry says, accelerating to catch up with Ron. “We’ll see who’s laughing after we play them . . .”

“If only Malfoy was flying then I’d knock him off…” I mutter darkly.

“Exactly the attitude I want, Harry,” says Angelina approvingly ignoring my mutter, soaring around us with the Quaffle under her arm and slowing to hover on the spot in front of her airborne team. “Okay everyone, we’re going to start with some passes just to warm up, the whole team please —”

“Hey, Johnson, what’s with that hairstyle anyway?” shrieks Pansy Parkinson from below. “Why would anyone want to look like they’ve got worms coming out of their head?”

Angelina sweeps her long braided hair out of her face and says calmly, “Spread out, then, and let’s see what we can do . . .”

I reverse away from the others to the far side of the pitch. Ron falls back towards the opposite goal, and Harry to the other side. Angelina raises the Quaffle with one hand and throws it hard to Fred, who passes to George, who passes to me, who passes to Harry, who passes to Ron, who drops it.

The Slytherins, led by Malfoy, roar and scream with laughter. Ron, who pelts toward the ground to catch the Quaffle before it lands, pulls out of the dive untidily, so that he slips sideways on his broom, and returns to playing height, blushing. I see Fred and George exchange looks, but uncharacteristically neither of them say anything, for which I am grateful.

“Pass it on, Ron,” calls Angelina, as though nothing has happened. I smile approvingly for her approach.

Ron throws the Quaffle to Alicia, who passes back to Harry, who passes to George. . . .

“Hey, Potter, how’s your scar feeling?” calls Malfoy. “Sure you don’t need a lie-down? It must be, what, a whole week since you were in the hospital wing, that’s a record for you, isn’t it?”

Fred passes to me; I reverse pass to Harry, who was not expecting it, but catches it in the very tips of his fingers and passes it quickly to Ron, who lunges for it and misses by inches.

“Come on now, Ron,” says Angelina crossly, as Ron dives for the ground again, chasing the Quaffle. “Pay attention.” This isn’t going so well, and the Slytherins definitely aren’t helping.

It would be hard to say whether Ron’s face or the Quaffle is a deeper scarlet when he returns again to playing height. Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team are howling with laughter.

On his third attempt, Ron catches the Quaffle; perhaps out of relief he passes it on so enthusiastically that it soars straight through Katie’s outstretched hands and hits her hard in the face.

“Sorry!” Ron groans, zooming forward to see whether he has done any damage.

“Get back in position, she’s fine!” barks Angelina. “But as you’re passing to a teammate, do try not to knock her off her broom, won’t you? We’ve got Bludgers for that!”

Katie’s nose is bleeding. Down below the Slytherins are stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George converge on Katie.

“Here, take this,” Fred tells her, handing her something small and purple from out of his pocket. “It’ll clear it up in no time.”

“All right,” calls Angelina, “Fred, George, go and get your bats and a Bludger; Ron, get up to the goalposts, Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We’re going to aim for Ron’s goal, obviously.”

I circle over to Katie to make sure that her nose has stopped bleeding, and also to help clean her face of the blood that was on it with one of my Quidditch rags. “Thanks Jame. Ron is blundering a lot out here. I know he’s your friend and all but…” She trails off. I sigh and shake my head at her.

“Its just nerves. Ron gets nervous easily.” I say softly finishing up.

“Well the Quidditch pitch is not a place to be nervous.” She tells me. I look down at the boisterous Slytherins and nod my head knowingly.

Harry, Fred, and George return with a Bludger and the Snitch. They return to the air. When Angelina blows her whistle, Harry releases the Snitch and Fred and George let fly the Bludger. Angelina immediately rifles the Quaffle to Katie, and I speed off towards the goal posts, juking around an unseen opponent, and dodging the bludger.

I get the quaffle in my hands back from Angelina and fire at the corner right pole. Ron dives for the Quaffle but it soars through, past his fingertips. I don’t need to see Angelina’s face to know that she isn’t happy. I didn’t even try all that hard on that one.

A little while later the whistle sounds to halt play. I come to a stop barely breathing hard at all, and more than a little disheartened.

“Stop — stop — STOP!” screams Angelina. “Ron — you’re not covering your middle post!”

I look around at Ron, who is hovering in front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two completely unprotected.

“Oh . . . sorry . . .”

“You keep shifting around while you’re watching the Chasers!” says Angelina.  “Either stay in center position until you have to move to defend a hoop, or else circle the hoops, but don’t drift vaguely off to one side, that’s how you let in the last three goals!”

“Sorry . . .” Ron repeats, his red face shining like a beacon against the bright blue sky.

“And Katie, can’t you do something about that nosebleed?” I glance over at her worriedly thinking that it had stopped but it’s the exact opposite in fact.

“It’s just getting worse!” says Katie thickly, attempting to stem the flow with her sleeve.

I glanced around at Fred, who is looking anxious and checking his pockets. I see Fred pull out something purple, examine it for a second, and then look around at Katie, evidently horrorstruck. Oh Merlin please tell me he didn’t…

“Well, let’s try again,” says Angelina. She is ignoring the Slytherins, who have now set up a chant of “Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers,” but there is a certain rigidity about her seat on the broom nevertheless.

This time we have been flying for barely three minutes when Angelina’s whistle sounds. This is beginning to get aggravating.

“What now?” Harry says impatiently to Alicia, who is nearest.

“Katie,” she says shortly. Angelina, Fred, and George, and I are all flying as fast as we can towards Katie, Harry right behind me. It is plain that Angelina has stopped training just in time; Katie is now chalk-white and covered in blood.

“She needs the hospital wing,” says Angelina.

“We’ll take her,” says Fred. “She — er — might have swallowed a Blood Blisterpod by mistake —”

“Well, there’s no point continuing with no Beaters and a Chaser gone,” says Angelina glumly, as Fred and George zoom off towards the castle supporting Katie between them. “Come on, let’s go and get changed.”

Well this has definitely been a let down of a practice.

The Slytherins continue to chant as we trail back into the changing rooms.

“How was practice?” asks Hermione rather coolly half an hour later, as Harry, Ron, and I climb through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room.

“It was —” Harry begins.

“Completely lousy,” says Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looks up at Ron and her frostiness seems to melt.

“Well, it was only your first one,” she says consolingly, “it’s bound to take time to —”

“Who said it was me who made it lousy?” snaps Ron.

Oh great here we go again. I’m not cut out for another Hermione and Ron bash at the moment.

“No one,” says Hermione, looking taken aback, “I thought —”

“You thought I was bound to be rubbish?”

“No, of course I didn’t! Look, you said it was lousy so I just —”

“I’m going to get started on some homework,” says Ron angrily and stomps off to the staircase to the boys’ dormitories and vanishes from sight. Hermione turns to Harry and me.

“Was he lousy?”

“No,” says Harry loyally. I shrug my shoulders still a little upset that I didn’t get more flying and actual practice in.

Hermione raises her eyebrows.

“Well, I suppose he could’ve played better,” Harry mutters, “but it was only the first training session, like you said . . .”

“He just let his nerves get to him.” I say simply.

When we work on homework that night Harry and Ron are both distracted, so they don’t actually get much done. Hermione keeps pestering me to stay on task so I actually end up getting some of my work done, which in the long run is a good thing.

We spend the whole of Sunday in the common room, buried in our books while the room around us fill up, then empty: It is another clear, fine day and most of our fellow Gryffindors spend the day out in the grounds, enjoying what might well be some of the last sunshine this year. I wish that I could have been out there as well. By the evening I feel as though somebody has been beating my brain against the inside of my skull.

“You know, we probably should try and get more homework done during the week,” Harry mutters to Ron, and me as we finally lay aside Professor McGonagall’s long essay on the Inanimatus Conjurus spells and turn miserably to Professor Sinistra’s equally long and difficult essay about Jupiter’s moons. At least I was able to get some of the work done before hand.

“Yeah,” says Ron, rubbing slightly bloodshot eyes and throwing his fifth spoiled bit of parchment into the fire beside us. “Listen . . . shall we just ask Hermione if we can have a look at what she’s done?”

Harry and I glance over at her; she is sitting with Crookshanks on her lap and chatting merrily to Ginny as a pair of knitting needles flash in midair in front of her, now knitting a pair of shapeless elf socks.

“No,” Harry says heavily, “you know she won’t let us.”

“I’m almost done with mine. I can help you out some.” I say putting some more sentences on my last paragraph.

And so we work on while the sky outside the windows becomes steadily darker; slowly, the crowd in the common room begins to thin again. I finished at nine, and messed around with my sketchbook. At half-past eleven, Hermione wanders over to us, yawning.

“Nearly done?”

“No,” says Ron shortly.

“Jupiter’s biggest moon is Ganymede, not Callisto,” she says, pointing over Ron’s shoulder at a line in his Astronomy essay, “and it’s Io that’s got the volcanos.”

“Thanks,” snarls Ron, scratching out the offending sentences.

“Sorry, I only —”

“Yeah, well, if you’ve just come over here to criticize —”

“Ron —”

“I haven’t got time to listen to a sermon, all right, Hermione, I’m up to my neck in it here —”

“No — look!”

Hermione is pointing to the nearest window. We look over. A handsome screech owl is standing on the windowsill, gazing into the room at Ron.

“Isn’t that Hermes?” says Hermione, sounding amazed. I grimace not looking forward to what his letter may say.

“Blimey, it is!” says Ron quietly, throwing down his quill and getting to his feet. “What’s Percy writing to me for?”

He crosses to the window and opens it; Hermes flies inside, lands upon Ron’s essay, and holds out a leg to which a letter is attached. Ron takes it off and the owl departs at once, leaving inky footprints across Ron’s drawing of the moon Io.

“That’s definitely Percy’s handwriting,” says Ron, sinking back into his chair and staring at the words on the outside of the scroll: To Ronald Weasley, Gryffindor House, Hogwarts. He looks up at the rest of us. “What d’you reckon?”

“Open it!” says Hermione eagerly. Harry nods.

“Maybe he’s finally realized what a giant prat he is.” I mutter crossly.

Ron unrolls the scroll and begins to read. The farther down the parchment his eyes travel, the more pronounced his scowl becomes. When he has finished reading, he looks disgusted. He thrust the letter at me, and Harry and Hermione crowd around to read it together:

Dear Ron,

I have only just heard (from no less a person than the Minister of Magic himself, who has it from your new teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a Hogwarts prefect.

I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must admit that I have always been afraid that you would take what we might call the “Fred and George” route, rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some real responsibility.

But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at night rather than by the usual morning post. Hopefully you will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid awkward questions.

From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternization with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this — no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore’s favorite — but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different — and probably more accurate — view of Potter’s behavior. I shall say no more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet tomorrow you will get a good idea of the way the wind is blowing — and see if you can spot yours truly!

Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality if you ask me and many of the people I’ve spoken to remain convinced of his guilt.

It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter — I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent — but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter’s behavior that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will be only too happy to advise you. (I have to stop from vomiting there.)

This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore’s regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from next week — again, see the Prophet tomorrow!). I shall say only this — a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years!

I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticize our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore (if you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore’s, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders).

I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people — the Minister really could not be more gracious to me — and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents’ beliefs and actions either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realize how mistaken they were and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes.

Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect.

Your brother,

Percy

 

There are no words to describe how upset I am with that man. I know that he didn’t use to be all bad but this is just taking it too far. Hermione sucks in a breath of air fro beside me.

“Jamie can you kindly start you exercises?” She asks me calmly. I look down not at all startled to see that the blue flames have started up in my hands again. I give her the best apologetic face that I can and start trying to calm myself down.

Harry looks up at Ron.

“Well,” he says, trying to sound as though he finds the whole thing a joke, “if you want to — er — what is it?” (He checks Percy’s letter.) “Oh yeah — ‘sever ties’ with me, I swear I won’t get violent.”

“Give it back,” says Ron, holding out his hand. “He is —” Ron says jerkily, tearing Percy’s letter in half, “the world’s” — he tears it into quarters — “biggest” — he tears it into eighths — “git.”

I can’t say that I disagree with him there. Ron throws the pieces into the fire.

“Come on, we’ve got to get this finished some time before dawn,” he says briskly to Harry, pulling Professor Sinistra’s essay back towards him.

Hermione is looking at Ron with an odd expression on her face. “Oh, give them here,” she says abruptly.

“What?” says Ron.

“Give them to me, I’ll look through them and correct them,” she says.

“Are you serious? Ah, Hermione, you’re a lifesaver,” says Ron, “what can I — ?”

“What you can say is, ‘We promise we’ll never leave our homework this late again,’” she says, holding out both hands for their essays, but she looks slightly amused all the same.

“Thanks a million, Hermione,” says Harry weakly, passing over his essay and sinking back into his armchair, rubbing his eyes.

It is now past midnight and the common room is deserted but for the four of us and Crookshanks. The only sound is that of Hermione’s quill scratching out sentences here and there on our essays and the ruffle of pages as she checks various facts in the reference books strewn across the table.

I have managed to get out three good charcoal drawing of my friends faces. I liked the challenges that the muted lighting gave me on the planes and shadows of their faces. It was a good way to calm down today, and now I’m fighting back a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Okay, write that down,” Hermione says to Ron, pushing his essay and a sheet covered in her own writing back to Ron, “and then copy out this conclusion that I’ve written for you.”

“Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful person I’ve ever met,” says Ron weakly, “and if I’m ever rude to you again —”

“— I’ll know you’re back to normal,” says Hermione. “Harry, yours is okay except for this bit at the end, I think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra, Europa’s covered in ice, not mice — Harry?”

Harry has slid off his chair onto his knees and is now crouching on the singed and threadbare hearthrug, gazing into the flames.

“Er — Harry?” says Ron uncertainly. “Why are you down there?”

“Because I’ve just seen Sirius’s head in the fire,” says Harry. I make a face at that.

“I think its time for bed Harry, you’re starting to see things.” I say worriedly.

“Sirius’s head?” Hermione repeats. “You mean like when he wanted to talk to you during the Triwizard Tournament? But he wouldn’t do that now, it would be too — Sirius!”

She gasps, gazing at the fire; Ron drops his quill. There in the middle of the dancing flames sits Sirius’s head, long dark hair falling around his grinning face.

“I was starting to think you’d go to bed before everyone else had disappeared,” he says. “I’ve been checking every hour.”

“You’ve been popping into the fire every hour?” Harry says, half laughing.

“Just for a few seconds to check if the coast was clear yet.”

“But what if you’d been seen?” says Hermione anxiously.

“That would have been fun to explain to McGonagall, why yes professor while staying u late to do homework we started seeing visions of mass murders in the hearth.” I giggle, more than a little sleep deprived.

“Well, I think a girl — first year by the look of her — might’ve got a glimpse of me earlier, but don’t worry,” Sirius says hastily, as Hermione claps a hand to her mouth. “I was gone the moment she looked back at me and I’ll bet she just thought I was an oddly shaped log or something.”

“But Sirius, this is taking an awful risk —” Hermione begins.

“You sound like Molly,” says Sirius. “This was the only way I could come up with of answering Harry’s letter without resorting to a code — and codes are breakable.”

At the mention of Harry’s letter, Hermione, Ron, and I had turn to stare at him.

“You didn’t say you’d written to Sirius!” said Hermione accusingly.

“I forgot,” says Harry, but that same idiotic smile comes to his face, so obviously there was a certain girl named Cho involved. “Don’t look at me like that, Hermione, there was no way anyone would have got secret information out of it, was there, Sirius?”

“No, it was very good,” says Sirius, smiling. “Anyway, we’d better be quick, just in case we’re disturbed — your scar.”

“What about — ?” Ron begins, but Hermione says quickly, “We’ll tell you afterward, go on, Sirius.”

“Well, I know it can’t be fun when it hurts, but we don’t think it’s anything to really worry about. It kept aching all last year, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, and Dumbledore said it happened whenever Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion,” sayw Harry, ignoring, as usual, Ron and Hermione’s winces. “So maybe he was just, I dunno, really angry or something the night I had that detention.”

“Well, now he’s back it’s bound to hurt more often,” says Sirius.

“So you don’t think it had anything to do with Umbridge touching me when I was in detention with her?” Harry asks. I wince thinking back at the detentions, it is not one of my favorite memories I will tell you that much.

“I doubt it,” says Sirius. “I know her by reputation and I’m sure she’s no Death Eater —”

“She’s foul enough to be one,” says Harry darkly and Ron, Hermione, and I nodd vigorously in agreement.

“Yes, but the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters,” says Sirius with a wry smile. “I know she’s a nasty piece of work, though — you should hear Remus talk about her.”

“Does Lupin know her?” asks Harry quickly. I remember Umbridge’s comments about dangerous half-breeds during her first lesson.

“No,” says Sirius, “but she drafted a bit of anti-werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it almost impossible for him to get a job.”

I remember how much shabbier Lupin looks these days and my dislike of Umbridge deepens even further.

“What’s she got against werewolves?” says Hermione angrily.

“Scared of them, I expect,” says Sirius, smiling at her indignation. “Apparently she loathes part-humans; she campaigned to have merpeople rounded up and tagged last year too. Imagine wasting your time and energy persecuting merpeople when there are little toerags like Kreacher on the loose —”

Ron laughs but Hermione looked upset.

“Sirius!” she says reproachfully. “Honestly, if you made a bit of an effort with Kreacher I’m sure he’d respond, after all, you are the only member of his family he’s got left, and Professor Dumbledore said —”

“So what are Umbridge’s lessons like?” Sirius interrupts. “Is she training you all to kill half-breeds?”

“At least we’d be learning magic if that was so.” I mumble spinning my wand around my fingers.

“No,” says Harry, ignoring Hermione’s affronted look at being cut off in her defense of Kreacher. “She’s not letting us use magic at all!”

“All we do is read the stupid textbook,” says Ron.

“Ah, well, that figures,” says Sirius. “Our information from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn’t want you trained in combat.”

“Trained in combat?” repeats Harry incredulously. “What does he think we’re doing here, forming some sort of wizard army?”

“Though that does sound really cool.” I say with a slight grin.

“That’s exactly what he thinks you’re doing,” says Sirius, “or rather, that’s exactly what he’s afraid Dumbledore’s doing — forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic.”

There is a pause at this, then Ron says, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, including all the stuff that Luna Lovegood comes out with.”

“So we’re being prevented from learning Defense Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared we’ll use spells against the Ministry?” says Hermione, looking furious.

“Yep,” says Sirius. “Fudge thinks Dumbledore will stop at nothing to seize power. He’s getting more paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It’s a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some trumped-up charge.”

“D’you know if there’s going to be anything about Dumbledore in the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Only Ron’s brother Percy reckons there will be —”

“I don’t know,” says Sirius, “I haven’t seen anyone from the Order all weekend, they’re all busy. It’s just been Kreacher and me here . . .”

There is a definite note of bitterness in Sirius’s voice.

“So you haven’t had any news about Hagrid, either?” I ask.

“Ah . . .” says Sirius, “well, he was supposed to be back by now, no one’s sure what’s happened to him.” Then, seeing our stricken faces, he adds quickly, “But Dumbledore’s not worried, so don’t you three get yourselves in a state; I’m sure Hagrid’s fine.”

“But if he was supposed to be back by now . . .” says Hermione in a small, worried voice.

“Madame Maxime was with him, we’ve been in touch with her and she says they got separated on the journey home — but there’s nothing to suggest he’s hurt or — well, nothing to suggest he’s not perfectly okay.”

Unconvinced, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I exchange worried looks.

“Listen, don’t go asking too many questions about Hagrid,” says Sirius hastily, “it’ll just draw even more attention to the fact that he’s not back, and I know Dumbledore doesn’t want that. Hagrid’s tough, he’ll be okay.” And when we do not appear cheered by this, Sirius adds, “When’s your next Hogsmeade weekend anyway? I was thinking, we got away with the dog disguise at the station, didn’t we? I thought I could —”

“NO!” say Harry and Hermione together, very loudly.

“Sirius, didn’t you see the Daily Prophet?” says Hermione anxiously.

“Oh that,” says Sirius, grinning, “they’re always guessing where I am, they haven’t really got a clue —”

“Yeah, but we think this time they have,” says Harry. “Something Malfoy said on the train made us think he knew it was you, and his father was on the platform, Sirius — you know, Lucius Malfoy — so don’t come up here, whatever you do, if Malfoy recognizes you again —”

“All right, all right, I’ve got the point,” says Sirius. He looks most displeased. “Just an idea, thought you might like to get together —”

“I would, I just don’t want you chucked back in Azkaban!” says Harry. There is a pause in which Sirius looks out of the fire at Harry, a crease between his sunken eyes.

“You’re less like your father than I thought,” he says finally, a definite coolness in his voice. “The risk would’ve been what made it fun for James.”

“That’s because Harry is not James Sirius. He’s his own person.” I say calmly hoping to help both of them out.

Maybe all this advice from Ariana is starting to pay off.

“Look —”

“Well, I’d better get going, I can hear Kreacher coming down the stairs,” says Sirius, but I’m sure he is lying. “I’ll write to tell you a time I can make it back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to risk it?”

There is a tiny pop, and the place where Sirius’s head was is flickering flame once more. We’re silent for a few moments before Harry heaves a heavy sigh.

“Well that was perfect. Now the only family that I have is angry at me.” He growls. We clamber to our feet, just in time to see Harry gather his stuff and storm up to his dormitory.

“I think I’m going to turn in too. Looks like tomorrow is going to be long.” I say exhaustedly. Little did I know how right I’d be…


	12. The Hogwarts High Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 12- The Hogwarts High Inquisitor

 

The next morning at breakfast there was a palpable tension in our group. We were all filled with a dreadful curiosity about what the big news was that the Ministry was going to announce tomorrow. I glance over at the Hufflepuff table to see a worried frown on Ariana’s face, and the worries me even more. Before I have a chance to do anything though, the owls arrive with the morning’s post.

We expected to have to comb Hermione’s Daily Prophet carefully next morning to find the article Percy mentioned in his letter. However, the departing delivery owl has barely cleared the top of the milk jug when Hermione lets out a huge gasp and flattens the newspaper to reveal a large photograph of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking slowly at us from beneath the headline:

MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER “HIGH INQUISITOR”

 

“‘High Inquisitor’?” says Harry darkly, his half-eaten bit of toast slipping from his fingers. “What does that mean?”

I don’t like the sound of this either.

Hermione reads aloud:

 

“In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“‘The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,’ said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. ‘He is now responding to concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve.”

“This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has used new laws to effect improvements at the Wizarding school. As recently as August 30th Educational Decree Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person.

“‘That’s how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,’ said Weasley last night. ‘Dumbledore couldn’t find anyone, so the Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she’s been an immediate success —’”

“She’s been a WHAT?” says Harry loudly. I feel myself start to shake knowing that the power is starting up without my control on it.

“Wait, there’s more,” says Hermione grimly.

“‘— an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what’s really happening at Hogwarts.’

“It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalized with the passing of Educational Decree Twenty-three, which creates the new position of ‘Hogwarts High Inquisitor.”

“‘This is an exciting new phase in the Minister’s plan to get to grips with what some are calling the “falling standards” at Hogwarts,’ said Weasley. ‘The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.’

“The Ministry’s new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts.”

“‘I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,’ said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. ‘Many of us with our children’s best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore’s eccentric decisions in the last few years and will be glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.’

“Among those ‘eccentric decisions’ are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of werewolf Remus Lupin, half-giant Rubeus Hagrid, and delusional ex-Auror ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody.”

“Rumors abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts.

“‘I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose confidence,’ said a Ministry insider last night.

“Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts.”

“‘Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius Fudge’s office,’ said Madam Marchbanks. ‘This is a further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus Dumbledore.’ (For a full account of Madam Marchbanks’ alleged links to subversive goblin groups, turn to page 17.)”

 

Hermione finishes reading and looks across the table at us. I’m so disgusted and angry all at once that I can’t even think straight. I don’t have a chance to though.

“Oh that FOUL TOAD! I WILL SHOW HER AND THE MINISTRY EXACTLY WHERE THEY CAN SHOVE IT!” I jump shocked at the outraged voice coming from the Hufflepuff table. Frankly everyone in the hall is.

“Ariana sit down…” Susan Bones pleads with her.

“You’re making a scene.” Hannah Abbott cringes.

“I DON’T BLOODY CARE. SOME PEOPLE ARE JUST TOO MUCH OF IMBECILES TO BE IGNORED! THE MINISTRY HAS NO RIGHT…” She shouts crumpling up the paper in her hands. My own problems forgotten, I slide out of my bench and go over to Ariana grabbing her by the elbow. She swings around wildly to hit me, but I catch her arm.

“Come on Ari.” I say softly tugging her towards the exit.

“Jamie—not now! My grandfather is under attack!” She says loudly, but not as loud as before, slowly allowing herself to be pulled out of the hall behind me.

“I know Ari— but you don’t want Umbridge to hear you! You’ll get in trouble. Trust me on this Dumbledore you don’t want to be in her bad books. You already have the last name.” I plead with her leading her outside of the castle incase she sees fit to explode in another fit of rage.

“It’s going to far Jamie! First they put her the world’s most incompetent teacher into Defense Against the Dark Arts, then they give her power over what goes on in school? It’s not right! My grandfather does a magnificent job running this school!” Ariana says shaking out of my hold, and pacing back and forth in front of the bench we have stopped in front of.

I slump down onto the bench knowing that she’s just going to have to work off her anger. “I mean can you believe the things that evil toad is saying? I know she denies that Voldemort has come back. She’s nothing more than a puppet that can open and close her mouth. Fudge’s words are the only things that come out of it anymore. Not that she had much of a brain to begin with…”

I sit there for a few minutes in fascination as one of the sweetest people I know totally trashes (rightfully so) Umbridge. To say that she’s the most riveting that she’s ever been is not a lie. I find myself fascinated by how she looks when she’s so worked up this way. She’s so badass— yet unbelievingly adorable at the same time.

Wait, did I just call Ariana Dumbledore adorable? What’s happening to me?

“Jamie?” I jump at the sound of her voice. I glance back up at the blond girl and am dazed for a moment by the sun hitting her golden blond hair literally making it glow a warm glow.

“S-sorry Ariana. Look I know that it sucks. This whole situation is not ideal. We just have to patient and creative. I’m sure that we can find ways to get around her, and if not, get back at her.” I say suggestively. Her brows furrow cutely in thought for a moment, before a crooked grin comes to her face, and I blush from the thoughts going through my head.

“So you and the trouble twins are up to your normal shenanigans this year?” Ariana asks softly sitting down on the bench next to me, so that we can have a more private conversation.

“Well we were in the line of thought that a certain professor needed to be properly introduced to the school. Some people need to be challenged and reminded of their place in the minds of the students.” I say slyly. Ariana roll her eyes at my attempt to be nonchalant.

“You can never be too sure about who’s listening in Ari.” I say grimly, my gaze focused on the short, stout, toad like person on the front step leading into the castle. Ariana sucks in a breath of air and flicks her gaze to the woman who is staring eerily at the pair of us.

“Whatever it is, you have my full support. The worst thing about all of this Jame is that my grandfather hasn’t talked to me since our first night back. I— I miss him Jamie.” She admits softly. I wrap my arms around the girl and bring her in for a hug, closing my eyes for a moment enjoying the feeling of warmth she gives me. I catch Umbridge’s eye over Ariana’s shoulder. Her eyes narrow at us, and a pit opens up in my stomach.

I slowly let go of Ariana and stand up, offering my hand to her. She takes it, and sighs. “Everything is changing.” She says casting a sideways glance at the woman still creepily watching us. I feel a shiver run down my spine.

“Yeah… I know.”

With that we walk back into the castle hand in hand staring defiantly at the toad like professor watching over us. That’s when I remember that my temper and magic had been beginning to get away from me earlier and when Ariana had her problem I was able to stop my magic and anger to help her out. This is certainly going to be interesting. 

* * *

 

I was almost late to my History of Magic class, which I had mixed feelings about. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be there, but then again missing would not have been a good thing if Umbridge had decided to inspect Binns’ class first. Ron keeps snickering about the thought of Umbridge trying to inspect Professor McGonagall. I have to admit that that is a rather funny thought.

The woman is never going to know what hit her. She did not show up at Snape’s dungeon for our double potions lesson as well, which again I had mixed feeling for. I’d love to see my two least favorite professors clash. Even a person like Snape couldn’t like Umbridge.

Snape hands back our potions essays and I’m pleasantly surprised to see that I actually got an A on my paper. That’s one of my better grades in this class from him. Hermione of course got an A. I don’t think that Snape can even justify giving her a lower grade. Harry is unhappy with his paper with the D on it.

“I have awarded you the grades you would have received if you presented this work in your O.W.L.,” says Snape with a smirk, as he sweeps among us, passing back our homework. “This should give you a realistic idea of what to expect in your examination.”

Snape reaches the front of the class and turns to face us.

“The general standard of this homework was abysmal. Most of you would have failed had this been your examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week’s essay on the various varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get D’s.”

“He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a carrying whisper, “Some people got D’s? Ha!”

We all set to work harder on our strengthening potions, and by the end of class, I’m left leaving rather proud of my work as I bring my light blue colored potion up to his desk.

“Well, that wasn’t as bad as last week, was it?” says Hermione, as we climb the steps out of the dungeon and make our way across the entrance hall towards lunch. “And the homework didn’t go too badly either, did it?”

When neither Ron nor Harry answer, she presses on, “I mean, all right, I didn’t expect the top grade, not if he’s marking to O.W.L. standard, but a pass is quite encouraging at this stage, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry makes a noncommittal noise in his throat. “I got an A. Acceptable. Not bad for a first try.” I say with a shrug.

Hermione gives me a happy smiles, and pats me on the back. “Obviously, I’d have been thrilled if I’d gotten an O —” She starts.

“Hermione,” says Ron sharply, “if you want to know what grades we got, ask.”

“I don’t — I didn’t mean — well, if you want to tell me —”

“I got a P,” says Ron, ladling soup into his bowl. “Happy?”

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” says Fred, who has just arrived at the table with George and Lee Jordan and is sitting down on Harry’s right. “Nothing wrong with a good healthy P.” I grin at the boys happy to see them after the rotten start to the day we’ve just had.

“But,” says Hermione, “doesn’t P stand for . . .”

“‘Poor,’ yeah,” says Lee Jordan. “Still, better than D, isn’t it? ‘Dreadful’?”

Harry starts choking on the roll he was eating and I immediately feel bad for my friend. Hermione keeps on the subject.

“So top grade’s O for ‘Outstanding,’” she is saying, “and then there’s A —”

“No, E,” George corrects her, “E for ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ And I’ve always thought Fred and I should’ve got E in everything, because we exceeded expectations just by turning up for the exams.”

I laugh, and they wriggle their eyebrows at me causing me to laugh more. The rest laugh as well except Hermione, who plows on, “So after E, it’s A for ‘Acceptable,’ and that’s the last pass grade, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” says Fred, dunking an entire roll in his soup, transferring it to his mouth, and swallowing it whole.

“Then you get P for ‘Poor’” — Ron raises both his arms in mock celebration — “and D for ‘Dreadful.’”

“And then T,” George reminds him.

“T?” asks Hermione, looking appalled. “Even lower than a D? What on earth does that stand for?”

“‘Troll,’” says George promptly.

“You lot had an inspected lesson yet?” Fred asks us.

“No,” says Hermione at once, “have you?”

“Just now, before lunch,” says George. “Charms.”

“What was it like?” Harry and Hermione ask together.

Fred shrugs.

Not that bad. Umbridge just lurks in the corner making notes on a clipboard. You know what Flitwick’s like, he treated her like a guest, didn’t seem to bother him at all. She didn’t say much. Asked Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes are normally like, Alicia told her they were really good, that was it.”

“I can’t see old Flitwick getting marked down,” says George, “he usually gets everyone through their exams all right.”

“Who’ve you got this afternoon?” Fred asks me.

“Trelawney —” I start.

“A T if ever I saw one —”

“— and Umbridge herself.”

“Well, be a good boy and girl and keep your tempers with Umbridge today,” says George. “Angelina’ll do her nut if you miss any more Quidditch practices.”

But we do not have to wait for Defense Against the Dark Arts to meet Professor Umbridge. I am pulling out my dream diary in a seat at the very back of the shadowy Divination room when Ron elbows me in the ribs and nudges Harry’s shoulder, looking round, I see Professor Umbridge emerging through the trapdoor in the floor. The class, which was talking cheerily, fall silent at once. The abrupt fall in the noise level makes Professor Trelawney, who has been wafting about handing out Dream Oracles, look round.

“Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,” says Professor Umbridge with her wide smile. “You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?”

Professor Trelawney nods curtly and, looking very disgruntled, turns her back on Professor Umbridge and continues to give out books. Still smiling, Professor Umbridge grasps the back of the nearest armchair and pulls it to the front of the class so that it is a few inches behind Professor Trelawney’s seat. She then sits down, takes her clipboard from her flowery bag, and looks up expectantly, waiting for the class to begin.

Professor Trelawney pulls her shawls tight about her with slightly trembling hands and surveys the class through her hugely magnifying lenses. “We shall be continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,” she says in a brave attempt at her usual mystic tones, though her voice shakes slightly. “Divide into threes, please, and interpret each other’s latest nighttime visions with the aid of the Oracle.”

She makes as though to sweep back to her seat, sees Professor Umbridge sitting right beside it, and immediately veers left towards Parvati and Lavender, who are already deep in discussion about Parvati’s most recent dream.

I open my copy of The Dream Oracle, watching Umbridge covertly. She is making notes on her clipboard now. After a few minutes she gets to her feet and begins to pace the room in Trelawney’s wake, listening to her conversations with students and posing questions here and there. I bend my head hurriedly over my book.

“Think of a dream, quick,” Harry told Ron, “in case the old toad comes our way.”

“I did it last time,” Ron protests, “it’s your turn, you tell me one.”

“Oh, I dunno . . .” says Harry desperately. “Let’s say I dreamed I was . . . drowning Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that’ll do . . .”

Ron chortles as he opens his Dream Oracle.

“I applaud your dream self for finding a way to actually do that.” I chuckle.

“Okay, we’ve got to add your age to the date you had the dream, the number of letters in the subject . . . would that be ‘drowning’ or ‘cauldron’ or ‘Snape’?” Ron says.

“It doesn’t matter, pick any of them,” says Harry, chancing a glance behind us. Professor Umbridge is now standing at Professor Trelawney’s shoulder making notes while the Divination teacher questions Neville about his dream diary.

“What night did you dream this again?” Ron says, immersed in calculations. I twirl my quill in my finger idly not really up for trying to please Umbridge. Its not her class so she can’t get mad at me.

“I dunno, last night, whenever you like,” Harry tells him. I tryi to listen to what Umbridge is saying to Professor Trelawney. They are only a table away from Harry, Ron, and me now. Professor Umbridge is making another note on her clipboard and Professor Trelawney is looking extremely put out.

“Now,” says Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney, “you’ve been in this post how long, exactly?”

Professor Trelawney scowls at her, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection. After a slight pause in which she seems to decide that the question is not so offensive that she can reasonably ignore it, she says in a deeply resentful tone, “Nearly sixteen years.”

“Quite a period,” says Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. “So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?”

“That’s right,” says Professor Trelawney shortly. Professor Umbridge makes another note.

“And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?”

“Yes,” says Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher. Another note on the clipboard.

“But I think — correct me if I am mistaken — that you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be possessed of second sight?”

“These things often skip — er — three generations,” says Professor Trelawney.

Professor Umbridge’s toad like smile widens.

“Of course,” she says sweetly, making yet another note. “Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?”

She looks up inquiringly, still smiling. Professor Trelawney stiffens as though unable to believe her ears.

“I don’t understand you,” says Professor Trelawney, clutching convulsively at the shawl around her scrawny neck.

“I’d like you to make a prediction for me,” says Professor Umbridge very clearly.

Harry, Ron, and I are not the only people watching and listening sneakily from behind our books now; most of the class is staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she draws herself up to her full height, her beads and bangles clinking.

“The Inner Eye does not See upon command!” she says in scandalized tones.

“I see,” says Professor Umbridge softly, making yet another note on her clipboard. I’m really wanting to break that thing in half and give it back to her.

“I — but — but . . . wait!” says Professor Trelawney suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice, though the mystical effect is ruined somewhat by the way it is shaking with anger. “I . . . I think I do see something . . . something that concerns you. . . . Why, I sense something . . . something dark . . . some grave peril . . .”

Professor Trelawney points a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge who continues to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised.

“I am afraid . . . I am afraid that you are in grave danger!” Professor Trelawney finishes dramatically. I sigh quietly. That’s not going to help her out any. Umbridge will just use that against her. As much as I dislike this class, I hate Umbridge and her ways more, so I feel bad for her.

There is a pause. Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows are still raised.

“Right,” she says softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. “Well, if that’s really the best you can do . . .”

She turns away, leaving Professor Trelawney standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. After a few seconds she swoops over to us.

“Well?” she says, snapping her long fingers under Harry’s nose, uncharacteristically brisk. “Let me see the start you’ve made on your dream diary, please.”

And by the time she has interpreted Harry’s dreams at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that involve eating porridge, apparently foretell a gruesome and early death), I am feeling much less sympathetic towards her. All the while, Professor Umbridge stands a few feet away, making notes on that clipboard, and when the bell rings she descends the silver ladder first so that she is waiting for us all when we reach our Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson ten minutes later.

She is humming and smiling to herself when we enter the room. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I told Hermione, who was in Arithmancy, exactly what happened in Divination while we all take out our copies of Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione can ask any questions Professor Umbridge has called us all to order and silence falls.

“Wands away,” she instructs us all smilingly, and those people who were hopeful enough to take them out sadly return them to their bags. “As we finished chapter one last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence chapter two, ‘Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.’ There will be no need to talk.”

Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sits down at her desk. The class gives an audible sigh as it turns, as one, to page nineteen. I wonder dully whether there are enough chapters in the book to keep them reading through all this year’s lessons and am on the point of checking the contents when I notice that Hermione has her hand in the air again.

Professor Umbridge notices too, and what is more, she seems to have worked out a strategy for just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend she has not noticed Hermione, she gets to her feet and walks around the front row of desks until they are face-to-face, then she bends down and whispers, so that the rest of the class can not hear, “What is it this time, Miss Granger?”

“I’ve already read chapter two,” says Hermione.

“Well then, proceed to chapter three.”

“I’ve read that too. I’ve read the whole book.”

Professor Umbridge blinks but recovers her poise almost instantly. “Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter fifteen.”

“He says that counterjinxes are improperly named,” says Hermione promptly. “He says ‘counterjinx’ is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.”

Professor Umbridge raises her eyebrows, and I know she is impressed against her will. I’m proud of my best friend but I know that glint in her eye. She is going to push Umbridge. I grit my teeth not wanting her to have to have detention.

“But I disagree,” Hermione continues.

Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows rise a little higher and her gaze becomes distinctly colder.

“You disagree?”

“Yes, I do,” says Hermione, who, unlike Umbridge, is not whispering, but speaking in a clear, carrying voice that has by now attracted the rest of the class’s attention.  “Mr. Slinkhard doesn’t like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be very useful when they’re used defensively.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” says Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper and straightening up. “Well, I’m afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard’s opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger.”

“But —” Hermione begins.

“That is enough,” says Professor Umbridge. She walks back to the front of the class and stands before us, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone. “Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor House.”

There is an outbreak of muttering at this.

“What for?” says Harry angrily.

“Don’t you get involved!” Hermione whispers urgently to him.

“Are you saying that we can’t have opinions _Professor_ Umbridge? Having an opinion is part of being a student and better yet a human being. You would wish that we were all mindless morons following your every word wouldn’t you. I think you and the Minister are going to have to try a lot harder to make us mindless puppets. The problem with your plan is that everyone in this school here even the first years and Malfoy are smarter than you.” I say deadly serious, and with a furious glare at her.

You can attack me all you want but go after my friend and you’re making a mistake.

“Detention for a week Miss Pendragon! It is absolutely inexcusable to speak to a Professor your better that way! In fact to Professor McGonagall you go!” She barks. I roll my eyes at her and gather my stuff up.

“You act like you’re doing me a disservice. This is actually a favor you toad.” I spit. With that I storm out of the room and into the corridor. I’m halfway through the corridor when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around and look shocked at Harry.

“Seriously? Didn’t I say enough?” I ask incredulously not even bothering to try and extinguish my hands.

“Well who am I to ever back down from a challenge?” Harry says self deprecatingly. “Besides you’re my detention buddy.”

“Want to skip McGonagall’s and go flying?” Harry asks. I raise my eyebrow at that then shrug my shoulders.

“Why not? She can’t hurt us any more than Umbridge will.” I say with a sigh.

* * *

 

The cut on the back of Harry’s and my hand was barely healed and by the following morning, it is bleeding again. We do not complain during the evening’s detention; we are determined not to give Umbridge the satisfaction; over and over again I write I must control my temper, and not a sound escaped my lips, though the cut deepens with every letter.

The very worst part of this second week’s worth of detentions is, just as George predicted, Angelina’s reaction. She corners us just as we arrived at the Gryffindor table for breakfast on Tuesday and shouts so loudly that Professor McGonagall comes sweeping down upon us from the staff table.

“Miss Johnson, how dare you make such a racket in the Great Hall! Five points from Gryffindor!”

“But Professor — he’s gone and landed himself in detention again, and this time Jamie is with him —”

“What’s this, Potter, Pendragon?” says Professor McGonagall sharply, rounding on Harry and me. “Detention? From whom?”

“From Professor Umbridge,” mutters Harry, not meeting Professor McGonagall’s beady, square-framed eyes. I shift nervously in my place feeling the intense stare from a certain Hufflepuff on me.

“Are you telling me,” she says, lowering her voice so that the group of curious Ravenclaws behind us can not hear, “that after the warning I gave you last Monday you lost your temper in Professor Umbridge’s class again?”

“Yes,” Harry mutters, speaking to the floor.

“I couldn’t control it Professor.” I say very quietly. Her grim expression softens minutely, knowing I have little to no control over the new magic.

“Potter, you must get a grip on yourself! You are heading for serious trouble, you as well Pendragon. Another five points from Gryffindor!”

“But — what? Professor, no!” Harry says, furious at this injustice. “I’m already being punished by her, why do you have to take points as well?”

“Because detentions do not appear to have any effect on you whatsoever!” says Professor McGonagall tartly. “No, not another word of complaint, Potter! And as for you, Miss Johnson, you will confine your shouting matches to the Quidditch pitch in future or risk losing the team Captaincy!”

She strides back towards the staff table. Angelina gives Harry a look of deepest disgust, glares at me, and stalks away, upon which Harry flings himself onto the bench beside Ron, fuming. I slowly sit down meeting the worried brown gaze at the Hufflepuff table for a second before looking away in shame.

“She’s taken points off Gryffindor because I’m having my hand sliced open every night! How is that fair, how?”

“Not fair at all, but there’s nothing fair about this year.” I mutter.

“I know, mate,” says Ron sympathetically, tipping bacon onto Harry’s plate, “she’s bang out of order.”

Hermione, however, merely rustles the pages of her Daily Prophet and says nothing.

“You think McGonagall was right, do you?” says Harry angrily to the picture of Cornelius Fudge obscuring Hermione’s face.

“I wish she hadn’t taken points from you, but I think she’s right to warn you not to lose your temper with Umbridge,” says Hermione’s voice, while Fudge gesticulates forcefully from the front page, clearly giving some kind of speech.

Harry does not speak to Hermione all through Charms (I’m not even happy in my favorite class), but when we enter Transfiguration Harry forgets his anger; Professor Umbridge and her clipboard are sitting in a corner and the sight of her drives the memory of breakfast right out of our heads.

“Excellent,” whispers Ron, as we sit down in our usual seats. “Let’s see Umbridge get what she deserves.”

Professor McGonagall marches into the room without giving the slightest indication that she knows Professor Umbridge is there.

“That will do,” she says and silence falls immediately. “Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework — Miss Brown, please take this box of mice — don’t be silly, girl, they won’t hurt you — and hand one to each student —”

“Hem, hem,” says Professor Umbridge, employing the same silly little cough she used to interrupt Dumbledore on the first night of term. Professor McGonagall ignores her. Seamus hands back my essay; I take it and see, to my relief, that I got and E. I smile happily, glad that something is going right for once.

“Right then, everyone, listen closely — Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again I shall put you in detention — most of you have now successfully vanished your snails and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the spell. Today we shall be —”

“Hem, hem,” says Professor Umbridge.

“Yes?” says Professor McGonagall, turning round, her eyebrows so close together they seem to form one long, severe line.

“I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec —”

“Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom,” says Professor McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge. Many of the students exchange looks of glee. “As I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing Spell —”

“Hem, hem.”

“I wonder,” says Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge, “how you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking.”

Professor Umbridge looks as though she has just been slapped in the face. She does not speak, but straightens the parchment on her clipboard and begins scribbling furiously. Looking supremely unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addresses the class once more.

“As I was saying, the Vanishing Spell becomes more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on your dinner. So — you know the incantation, let me see what you can do . . .”

“How she can lecture me about not losing my temper with Umbridge!” Harry says to Ron and me under his voice, but he is grinning; his anger with Professor McGonagall has quite evaporated.

I look at my spotted mouse again quite amused that almost all has vanished except for a long whisker.

Professor Umbridge does not follow Professor McGonagall around the class as she followed Professor Trelawney; perhaps she thought that Professor McGonagall would not permit it. She does, however, take many more notes while she sits in her corner, and when Professor McGonagall finally tells us all to pack away, rises with a grim expression on her face.

“Well, it’s a start,” says Ron, holding up a long, wriggling mouse tail and dropping it back into the box Lavender is passing around. I put Whisker in the box with a smile.

As we file out of the classroom, I see Professor Umbridge approach the teacher’s desk; I nudged Ron, who nudges Hermione, and Harry in turn, and the four of us deliberately fall back to eavesdrop.

“How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?” Professor Umbridge asks.

“Thirty-nine years this December,” says Professor McGonagall brusquely, snapping her bag shut. Professor Umbridge makes a note.

“Very well,” she says, “you will receive the results of your inspection in ten days’ time.”

“I can hardly wait,” says Professor McGonagall in a coldly indifferent voice, and she strides off towards the door. “Hurry up, you four,” she adds, sweeping Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me before her. Harry and I cannot help giving her a faint smile and I swear we received one in return.

We thought that the next time we would see Umbridge would be in our detention that evening, but we were wrong. When we walk down the lawns toward the forest for Care of Magical Creatures, we find her and her clipboard waiting for us beside Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“You do not usually take this class, is that correct?” I hear her ask as we arrive at the trestle table where the group of captive bowtruckles are scrabbling around for wood lice like so many living twigs.

“Quite correct,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I am a substitute teacher standing in for Professor Hagrid.”

Harry exchanges uneasy looks with Ron, Hermione, and me. Malfoy is whispering with Crabbe and Goyle; he will surely love this opportunity to tell tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry. I’m seriously going to have to watch my temper here.

“Hmm,” says Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice, though we can still hear her quite clearly, “I wonder — the headmaster seems strangely reluctant to give me any information on the matter — can you tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid’s very extended leave of absence?”

I see Malfoy look up eagerly.

“’Fraid I can’t,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank breezily. “Don’t know anything more about it than you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore, would I like a couple of weeks teaching work, accepted — that’s as much as I know. Well . . . shall I get started then?”

“Yes, please do,” says Professor Umbridge, scribbling upon her clipboard.

Umbridge takes a different tack in this class and wanders among the students, questioning them on magical creatures. Most people are able to answer well and my spirits lift somewhat; at least the class is not letting Hagrid down.

“Overall,” says Professor Umbridge, returning to Professor Grubbly-Plank’s side after a lengthy interrogation of Dean Thomas, “how do you, as a temporary member of staff — an objective outsider, I suppose you might say — how do you find Hogwarts? Do you feel you receive enough support from the school management?”

“Oh, yes, Dumbledore’s excellent,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank heartily. “No, I’m very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed.”

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge makes a tiny note on her clipboard and goes on, “And what are you planning to cover with this class this year — assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?”

“Oh, I’ll take them through the creatures that most often come up in O.W.L.,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank. “Not much left to do — they’ve studied unicorns and nifflers, I thought we’d cover porlocks and kneazles, make sure they can recognize crups and knarls, you know . . .”

“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing, at any rate,” says Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard. I do not like the emphasis she put on “you” and like it even less when she puts her next question to Goyle: “Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?”

Goyle gives a stupid grin. Malfoy hastens to answer the question.

“That was me,” he says. “I was slashed by a hippogriff.”

“A hippogriff?” says Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically.

“Only because he was too stupid to listen to what Hagrid told him to do,” says Harry angrily.

Ron, Hermione, and I groan. Professor Umbridge turns her head slowly in Harry’s direction.

“Another night’s detention, I think,” she says softly. “Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that’s all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days.”

“Jolly good,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank, and Professor Umbridge sets off back across the lawn to the castle.

“Has to go back to her pink hell and think of more insults to give to people.” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head at Harry. He has to make it harder on himself. 

* * *

 

It was nearly midnight when Harry and I leave Umbridge’s office that night, our hands now bleeding so severely that it is staining the scarves we have wrapped around them. We expect the common room to be empty when we returned, but Ron and Hermione have sat up waiting for us. I am pleased to see them, especially as Hermione is disposed to be sympathetic rather than critical.

“Here,” she says anxiously, pushing a small bowl of yellow liquid towards me then Harry, “soak your hand in that, it’s a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles, it should help.”

I place my bleeding, aching hand into the bowl and experience a wonderful feeling of relief. Crookshanks curls around my legs, purring loudly, and then leaps into my   lap and settles down.

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks’s ears with my right hand.

“I still reckon you should complain about this,” says Ron in a low voice.

“No,” said Harry flatly relaxing into the couch.

“McGonagall would go nuts if she knew —”

“Yeah, she probably would,” says Harry. “And how long d’you reckon it’d take Umbridge to pass another Decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?”

Ron opens his mouth to retort but nothing comes out and after a moment he closes it again in a defeated sort of way.

“We can’t tell anyone else either because of expulsion, no way is Dumbledore to find out. She’d go ballistic.” I cringe.

“She’s an awful woman Umbridge,” says Hermione in a small voice. “Awful. You know, I was just saying to Ron when you came in . . . we’ve got to do something about her.”

“I suggested poison,” says Ron grimly. I can’t help but smile at that.

“No . . . I mean, something about what a dreadful teacher she is, and how we’re not going to learn any defense from her at all,” says Hermione.

“Well, what can we do about that?” says Ron, yawning. “’S too late, isn’t it? She got the job, she’s here to stay, Fudge’ll make sure of that.”

“Well,” says Hermione tentatively. “You know, I was thinking today . . .” She shoots a slightly nervous look at Harry and then plunges on, “I was thinking that — maybe the time’s come when we should just — just do it ourselves.”

I cast the girl a curious look. This sounds intriguing and against the rules.

“Do what ourselves?” says Harry suspiciously, still floating his hand in the essence of murtlap tentacles.

“Well — learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves,” says Hermione.

“Come off it,” groans Ron. “You want us to do extra work? D’you realize Harry and I are behind on homework again and it’s only the second week? Jamie isn’t sleeping just so she gets hers done.”

I grimace at the thought of yet another sleepless week and most likely plenty more to come.

“But this is much more important than homework!” says Hermione. Okay I must have hurt my hand so much that my ears have stopped working to focus on the pain. Hermione Granger did not just say that there is something out there more important than homework.

Harry and Ron goggle at her.

“I didn’t think there was anything in the universe more important than homework,” says Ron.

“Don’t be silly, of course there is!” says Hermione, and I see, with an ominous feeling, that her face is suddenly alight with the kind of fervor that S.P.E.W. usually inspires in her. “It’s about preparing ourselves, like Harry and Jamie said in Umbridge’s first lesson, for what’s waiting out there. It’s about making sure we really can defend ourselves. If we don’t learn anything for a whole year —”

“We can’t do much by ourselves,” says Ron in a defeated voice. “I mean, all right, we can go and look jinxes up in the library and try and practice them, I suppose —”

“We’d get caught and made to write more lines then.” I grimace.

“No, I agree, we’ve gone past the stage where we can just learn things out of books,” says Hermione. “We need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how to use the spells and correct us if we’re going wrong.”

“If you’re talking about Lupin . . .” Harry begins.

“No, no, I’m not talking about Lupin,” says Hermione. “He’s too busy with the Order and anyway, the most we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and that’s not nearly often enough.”

“Who, then?” says Harry, frowning at her. Hermione heaves a very deep sigh.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she says. “I’m talking about you, Harry.”

There is a moment’s silence. A light night breeze rattles the windowpanes behind Ron and the fire gutters.

“About me what?” asks Harry.

“I’m talking about you teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea. Harry’s had more experience than all of us put together.” I say looking at my black haired friend carefully.

Harry stares at her. Then he turns to Ron, ready to exchange the exasperated looks they sometimes share when Hermione elaborates on far-fetched schemes like S.P.E.W. However, Ron does not look exasperated. He is frowning slightly, apparently thinking. Then he says, “That’s an idea.”

“What’s an idea?” said Harry.

“You,” says Ron. “Teaching us to do it.”

“But . . .”

“You’d be good at it Harry.” I say seriously.

“But I’m not a teacher, I can’t —”

“Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” says Hermione.

“Yeah and Jamie’s the best in the year at Charms and you the rest of the subjects. Why don’t you two do it?” Harry says.

“Look at what you’ve done Harry!” Hermione cries beginning to look frazzled at Harry’s daft denial.

“How d’you mean?”

“You know what, I’m not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me,” Ron says to Hermione, smirking slightly. I chuckle at that. He turns to Harry. “Let’s think,” he says, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh . . . first year — you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who.”

“But that was luck,” says Harry, “that wasn’t skill and Jamie was there too—”

“Second year,” Ron interrupts, “you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

“Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up I —”

“Third year,” says Ron, louder still, “you fought off about a hundred dementors at once —”

“You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn’t —”

“Last year,” Ron says, almost shouting now, “you fought off You-Know-Who again —”

“Listen to me!” says Harry, almost angrily, because Ron, Hermione, and I are all smirking now. “Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all that stuff was luck — I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help —” we’re still smirking and Harry starts to grow angry.

“Don’t sit there grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn’t I?” he says heatedly. “I know what went on, all right? And I didn’t get through any of that because I was brilliant at Defense Against the Dark Arts, I got through it all because — because help came at the right time, or because I guessed right — but I just blundered through it all, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing — STOP LAUGHING!”

The bowls of murtlap essence fall to the floor and smash. Harry is on his feet. Crookshanks streaks away under a sofa; our smiles smiles have vanished.

“You don’t know what it’s like! You — none of you — you’ve never had to face him, have you? You think it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you’re in class or something? The whole time you know there’s nothing between you and dying except your own — your own brain or guts or whatever — like you can think straight when you know you’re about a second from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die — they’ve never taught us that in their classes, what it’s like to deal with things like that — and you three sit there acting like I’m a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up — you just don’t get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn’t needed me —”

“We weren’t saying anything like that, mate,” says Ron, looking aghast. “We weren’t having a go at Diggory, we didn’t — you’ve got the wrong end of the —”

He looks helplessly at Hermione, whose face is stricken.

“Harry,” she says timidly, “don’t you see? This . . . this is exactly why we need you. . . . We need to know what it’s r-really like . . . facing him . . . facing V-Voldemort.”

It is the first time she has ever said Voldemort’s name, and it is this, more than anything else, that calms Harry. Still breathing hard, he sinks back into his chair.

“Well . . . think about it,” says Hermione quietly. “Please?”

Hermione stands up. “Well, I’m off to bed,” she says in a voice that is clearly as natural as she can make it. “Erm . . . ’night.”

Ron gets to his feet too. “Coming?” he says awkwardly to Harry.

“Yeah,” says Harry. “In . . . in a minute. I’ll just clear this up.” He indicates the smashed bowls on the floor. Ron nods and leaves.

“Reparo,” Harry mutters, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china. They fly back together, good as new, but there is no returning the murtlap essence to the bowls.

“You know Harry… I have been by your side for most of your adventures. I didn’t do it because I was brave or strong, or smart. I did it because you were so confident in always doing the right thing no matter the risk or the danger. I admired that in you, and I still do today, which is why I will follow you into every battle until we’re though. Its not the skills you possess that makes you great at DADA, its your heart— your very soul. You can inspire people to do great things, I for one am a example of that.” I tell him locking eyes with the boy who survived Voldemort as a baby.

“You were already brave and standing up for what is right when I met you.” Harry says weakly. His cheeks are red from my words.

“Maybe… but it was definitely you who brought it out in me.” I say getting up from the sofa and flexing my wounded hand gently. It is quite gruesome to look at. “Good night Harry. Try to get some sleep.”

As I climb the stairs I look down at the nasty red lines engraved deep into my hand; I must control my temper. I guess that my life has become a series of impossible things, Harry will come around eventually, and that’s one of the big reasons why I became friends with him.


	13. In the Hog's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 13- In the Hog’s Head

 

The last two weeks had been going very well for me, and not so great for Umbridge. It seemed like everywhere she turned another prank was being pulled on her. First her office had been turned from that ugly shade of pink to a dark and dreary black with what looked like blood oozing over all of her doylies and tea set. Then she found that whenever she spoke during class for a whole day that nothing but fart sounds would come out, a classic of ours but still a good one.

One of my personal favorites was an ugly sweater on it with the picture of a big ugly bull frog on it reading, ‘We’re related’. It was charmed to be stuck for her person for two whole days. She had stormed up to the Headmaster’s office herself and demanded that he get it off and punish the person responsible. Though we have yet to see Professor Dumbledore since the opening feast there are rumors that he made the charm permanent, though it was quickly gone, once she got it off.

All of these lovely jokes have been pulled by yours truly and the Weasley twins. Lee Jordan helped with the planning and execution, but one of the biggest helps was from Ariana Dumbledore herself. She would let us sneak by her on patrol, and even grant us clearance to out of bounds sections of the castle like Umbridge’s office.

Fred and George have even developed a healthy respect of Ariana since she’s helping them out with our shenanigans instead of punishing us like she’s supposed to.

“You’re not too bad for a prefect and Hufflepuff.” Fred admits grudgingly, though he was perfectly happy with her back at headquarters.

“Yeah, I can see why Jamie likes you so much.” George says nudging her shoulder. I blush about six different shades of red at the mere suggestion while Ariana laughed.

Good times. I’m brought out of my reminiscing by the dangerous topic between Harry and Hermione.

Hermione makes no mention of Harry giving Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons for two whole weeks after her original suggestion. Harry’s and my detentions with Umbridge are finally over (I doubted whether the words now etched on the back of my hand will ever fade entirely); Ron has had four more Quidditch practices and not been shouted at during the last two; and all four of us have managed to vanish our mice in Transfiguration (Hermione has actually progressed to vanishing kittens), before the subject is broached again, on a wild, blustery evening at the end of September, when the four of us are sitting in the library, looking up potion ingredients for Snape.

“I was wondering,” Hermione says suddenly, “whether you’d thought any more about Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry.”

“’Course I have,” says Harry grumpily. “Can’t forget it, can we, with that hag teaching us —”

“I meant the idea Ron and I had” — Ron casts her an alarmed, threatening kind of look; she frowns at him — “oh, all right, the idea I had, then — about you teaching us.”

“Still think it’s a good idea.” I interject not looking up having finally found the ingredient I was looking for.

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “yeah, I — I’ve thought about it a bit.”

“And?” says Hermione eagerly.

“I dunno,” says Harry, playing for time. He looks up at Ron.

“I thought it was a good idea from the start,” says Ron, who seems keener to join in this conversation now that he is sure that Harry is not going to start shouting again.

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “You did listen to what I said about a load of it being luck, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Harry,” says Hermione gently, “but all the same, there’s no point pretending that you’re not good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, because you are. You were the one of the only people last year along with Jamie who could throw off the Imperius Curse completely, you can produce a Patronus, you can do all sorts of stuff that full-grown wizards can’t, Viktor always said —”

Ron looks around at her so fast he appears to crick his neck; rubbing it, he says, “Yeah? What did Vicky say?”

“Ho ho,” says Hermione in a bored voice. “He said Harry knew how to do stuff even he didn’t, and he was in the final year at Durmstrang.”

Ron is looking at Hermione suspiciously.

“You’re not still in contact with him, are you?”

“So what if I am?” says Hermione coolly, though her face is a little pink. “I can have a pen pal if I —”

“He didn’t only want to be your pen pal,” says Ron accusingly. Hermione shakes her head exasperatedly and, ignoring Ron, who is continuing to watch her, says to Harry, “Well, what do you think? Will you teach us?”

“Just you, Ron, and Jamie yeah?”

“Well,” says Hermione, now looking a mite anxious again. “Well . . . now, don’t fly off the handle again, Harry, please. . . . But I really think you ought to teach anyone who wants to learn. I mean, we’re talking about defending ourselves against V-Voldemort — oh, don’t be pathetic, Ron — it doesn’t seem fair if we don’t offer the chance to other people.”

Harry considers this for a moment, then said, “Yeah, but I doubt anyone except you two would want to be taught by me. I’m a nutter, remember?”

“But you’re a famous and fabulous nutter so the people will flock nonetheless.” I say dramatically. Harry gives me a flabbergasted look. I roll my eyes at him.

“Did you learn nothing from Lockhart, that was practically the only thing he ever taught!” I say exasperatedly.

“Well, I think you might be surprised how many people would be interested in hearing what you’ve got to say,” says Hermione seriously. “Look,” she leans towards him; Ron, who is still watching her with a frown on his face, leans forward to listen too, “you know the first weekend in October’s a Hogsmeade weekend? How would it be if we tell anyone who’s interested to meet us in the village and we can talk it over?”

“Why do we have to do it outside school?” says Ron.

“Because,” says Hermione, returning to the diagram of the Chinese Chomping Cabbage she is copying, “I don’t think Umbridge would be very happy if she found out what we were up to.”

“Oh she would have a whole little flock, herd, litter, of little toads.” I say trying to land on the right word. The three of them exchange amused looks before breaking out into chuckles and giggles. 

* * *

I am thoroughly looking forward to my Hogsmeade weekend. I can’t wait to get away from the castle, lessons, and homework. Though it is entertaining to make Umbridge’s life a living hell. She has been going around for the past few days with large angry boils on her face threatening to pop. The best part about it is that she hasn’t found out who is behind it, and even Professor McGonagall has had a hard time keeping herself from laughing.

One rather unfortunate incident that had happened was when I was in the library studying with Ariana and Luka for a change. The pair of them liked to gang up on me when they thought that I was falling behind in school and make me do my work to catch up.

“I don’t want to have my sister be the first Pendragon to drop out of Hogwarts.” was Luka’s only explanation.

So we had been hard at work for a few hours when it happened. I had stretched my hand out to get another roll of parchment when the horrified gasp met my ears. I instantly knew what it was about. I slowly looked up into the glassy, yet angry brown eyes of Ariana. I quickly tried to retract my bad hand, but she was quicker grabbing onto it with an iron grip.

“Jamie… what in Merlin’s bloody name is that?” She demands her fervent whisper slowly rising in volume. That is enough to distract Luka away from the essay he was currently writing to look at what was going on between the two of us.

“I-I…” I rifle through my brain trying to find an excuse that would be good enough to brush off the still healing scar embedded into my left hand.

“Don’t you dare try and brush it off either. Nothing that odd and specific shows up etched into your hand.” Ariana growls, she’s attracting the attention of students in the library. I glance around nervously hoping that Madam Pince doesn’t heard and come over to throw the three of us out.

Luka’s eyes widen as he reads the message. “I must control my temper.” Luka reads horrified. I wince hearing the phrase read aloud again.

“Who did this?” Ariana’s voice has lowered dangerously and there’s a dark look in her eyes, that honestly frightening.

“Its— its nothing Ari…” I say softly. She narrows her eyes at me and I retreat further away.

“Jamie you have a sentence cut into your hand! That’s not normal!” Luka cries looking caught between pissed and distraught. I finally manage to pull my hand away.

“This is why I didn’t tell you. You have to promise me that you won’t do anything! I don’t want you two to get into trouble. You have to promise.” I insist. The two of them share an uneasy look before nodding their heads. “No promise.” I demand. Ariana huffs but holds out her pinky finger to me.

“I promise Jamie.” She says grudgingly. I hook mine in hers.

“Of course Jame.” Luka tells me biting his lip.

I take a deep breath and try to center myself. I’m afraid that they’re going to go ballistic when I tell them who exactly did this to me.

“Umbridge…” I finally manage to get out. The shocked and disgusted looks are on their face.

“But I thought that you only had to write lines?” Luka breathes out.

“I did— this is my line.” I say simply. Ariana is gripping onto the table so tightly that her knuckles are turning pale.

“How?” She demands.

“A quill… it’s a special one. She had one for Harry too…”

“I’m going to kill her!” Ariana says in a deadly voice pushing back from the table, and yanking her bag off her chair. She books it for the entrance of the library. My eyes widen and I scramble to gather my stuff so that I can stop her from making a huge mistake.

Luka scrambles for his things and follows behind us. We finally catch up to Ariana when she’s about two halls from Umbridge’s office. I can hear muttered curse words coming from the girl and a rather graphic description of what she wants to do to Umbridge when she sees her.

“Ari! Don’t she’s not worth it! She’ll hurt you as well!” I cry tackling the girl from behind pushing her up against the wall. She struggles in my grip, and I’m lucky that I’ve had all my Quidditch practice for she’s stronger than she looks.

“Let go of me Jamie! She has to pay! She hurt you, tortured you! That’s not okay, she can’t do that to my g-friend!” She shouts pushing at my shoulders with a mad gleam in her eyes. Luka finally catches up to us panting.

“Ariana, this isn’t the way. You don’t think I’m furious about what she’s done? She’s hurt my little sister— my twin, but attacking her isn’t the way to solve anything. Who will protect Jamie if you get thrown out of school? It won’t be you, and I have a feeling that Jamie’s friends are all caught up in this as well.” Luka tells her trying to be the voice of reason.

Ariana thrashes around for a few more seconds trying to escape before finally stilling, and letting the first of her tears fall. “Its not right.” She says brokenly, slumping down in my grip, all the fight gone from her now. I let out a relieved breath, but my chest constricts tightly at seeing her crying, for me no less.

“Sh… its okay Ari. I’m here I’m fine. Yes it hurt like no other, but I’m fine. She hasn’t broken me, I’m still right here… just a little different from before.” I tell her. Ariana brushes at the tears on her face and I help her wipe the last of them away. Luka gives the pair of us a relieved smile, before patting the Dumbledore’s shoulder once.

“I’ve got to go and meet with Professor Flitwick about my paper, but this conversation isn’t over Jamie. Ariana I’ll see you later. Maybe we can get a cuppa tea in the kitchen?” Luka suggests. Ariana sniffs once again and nods her head. With a wave of his hand Luka disappears around the corner. I turn my attention back to the girl with red-rimmed eyes in front of me.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask her worriedly. A strangled laugh escapes from her.

“You get tortured for weeks, and you’re the one asking me if I’m all right.” Ariana says shaking her head. “I swear Jamie Pendragon, sometimes I honestly don’t understand you.”

I can hear the fondness in her voice, and I blush slightly smiling at my friend trying to ignore the odd fluttering feeling in my stomach.

“Well I won’t do anything crazy for the moment, but if this happens again Jamie, I don’t care how many detentions I get, I’m going after her.” Ariana says seriously holding my gaze to prove it. I shiver and grimace at the thought of the same happening to her.

“Okay, I promise I’ll try my best not to get in trouble with her anymore but my anger…” I choke not even being able to say the word temper anymore. Her expression softens in sympathy.

“I know Jame, it sucks and totally unfair, but you can get through it. I know you can.” We stand in silence for a few minutes just enjoying each other’s company. “I know what you can do to make it up to me though.” She says suddenly.

I quirk an eyebrow up at that. “Oh, and what would that be?” I question. She grins at me, and I get slightly worried.

“An extra huge bar of Honeydukes chocolate.”

I roll my eyes as we start down the hall towards the Great Hall for dinner.

* * *

 

Harry on the other hand has been stressing over Sirius since he hasn’t heard from his godfather since the disastrous conversation via fireplace.

“Well, you can’t blame him for wanting to get out and about,” says Ron, when Harry discusses his fears with Ron, Hermione, and me. “I mean, he’s been on the run for over two years, hasn’t he, and I know that can’t have been a laugh, but at least he was free, wasn’t he? And now he’s just shut up all the time with that lunatic elf.”

Hermione scowls at Ron, but otherwise ignores the slight on Kreacher. Thank Merlin for that.

“The trouble is,” she says to Harry, “until V-Voldemort — oh for heaven’s sake, Ron — comes out into the open, Sirius is going to have to stay hidden, isn’t he? I mean, the stupid Ministry isn’t going to realize Sirius is innocent until they accept that Dumbledore’s been telling the truth about him all along. And once the fools start catching real Death Eaters again it’ll be obvious Sirius isn’t one . . . I mean, he hasn’t got the Mark, for one thing.”

“I don’t reckon he’d be stupid enough to turn up,” says Ron bracingly.  “Dumbledore’d go mad if he did and Sirius listens to Dumbledore even if he doesn’t like what he hears.”

When Harry continues to look worried, Hermione says, “Listen, Ron and I have been sounding out people who we thought might want to learn some proper Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there are a couple who seem interested. We’ve told them to meet us in Hogsmeade.”

“Right,” says Harry vaguely, his mind still on Sirius.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Hermione says quietly. “You’ve got enough on your plate without Sirius too.”

Harry grimaces and Ron does as well. Harry has been having a hard time keeping up with his homework though its better now that he no longer has detentions with Umbridge. Harry, Ron, and I have Quidditch practice two times a week on top of all our homework, but Ron is even farther behind for he has prefect duties on top of that.

I’m managing to get my homework done in time for the most part with the help of Hermione, Luka, and Ariana. Between the three prefects I have been kept on a tight schedule of study times, so that I can make it through the week without having to bang my head against the wall too many times.

Hermione is the one who has the situation under control the most even though she’s taking more classes than us. She has all her homework done, and still has time to knit more elf clothes.

The morning of the Hogsmeade visit dawns bright but windy. After breakfast we queue up in front of Filch, who matches our names to the long list of students who have permission from their parents or guardian to visit the village (the Weasleys signed new ones for Luka and me).

When Harry reaches Filch, the caretaker gives a great sniff as though trying to detect a whiff of something from Harry. Then he gives a curt nod that sets his jowls aquiver again and Harry walks on, out onto the stone steps and the cold, sunlit day.

“Er — why was Filch sniffing you?” asks Ron, as he, Harry, Hermione, and I set off at a brisk pace down the wide drive to the gates.

“I suppose he was checking for the smell of Dungbombs,” says Harry with a small laugh. “I forgot to tell you . . .”

And he recounts the story of sending his letter to Sirius and Filch bursting in seconds later, demanding to see the letter. To his slight surprise, Hermione finds this story highly interesting, much more, indeed, than I do myself.

“He said he was tipped off you were ordering Dungbombs? But who had tipped him off?”

“I dunno,” says Harry, shrugging. “Maybe Malfoy, he’d think it was a laugh.”

“I’d find something more original to pin on you personally.” I say, and hold my hands up when Harry glares at me.

We walk between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars and turn left onto the road into the village, the wind whipping our hair into our eyes.

“Malfoy?” says Hermione, very skeptically. “Well . . . yes . . . maybe . . .”

And she remains deep in thought all the way into the outskirts of Hogsmeade.

“Where are we going anyway?” Harry asks. “The Three Broomsticks?”

“Oh — no,” says Hermione, coming out of her reverie, “no, it’s always packed and really noisy. I’ve told the others to meet us in the Hog’s Head, that other pub, you know the one, it’s not on the main road. I think it’s a bit . . . you know . . . dodgy . . . but students don’t normally go in there, so I don’t think we’ll be overheard.”

“Hopefully they still serve butterbeer. I’ve been craving one lately.” I say wistfully following after them.

We walk down the main street past Zonko’s Joke Shop, where we are unsurprised to see Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, past the post office, from which owls issue at regular intervals, and turn up a side street at the top of which stands a small inn. A battered wooden sign hangs from a rusty bracket over the door, with a picture upon it of a wild boar’s severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth around it. The sign creaks in the wind as we approach. All four of us hesitate outside the door.

“Well, come on,” says Hermione slightly nervously. Harry leads the way inside.

“I’d rather be going back into the Chamber of Secrets.” I grumble glancing at the sign one last time.

It is not at all like the Three Broomsticks, whose large bar gives an impression of gleaming warmth and cleanliness. The Hog’s Head bar comprises one small, dingy, and very dirty room that smells strongly of something that might be goats. The bay windows are so encrusted with grime that very little daylight can permeate the room, which is lit instead with the stubs of candles sitting on rough wooden tables. The floor seems at first glance to be earthy, though as I step onto it I realize that there is stone beneath what seems to be the accumulated filth of centuries.

I remember Hagrid mentioning this pub in our first year: “Yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in the Hog’s Head,” he said, explaining how he had won a dragon’s egg from a hooded stranger there. At the time I wondered why Hagrid had not found it odd that the stranger kept his face hidden throughout their encounter; now I see that keeping your face hidden is something of a fashion in the Hog’s Head. There is a man at the bar whose whole head is wrapped in dirty gray bandages, though he is still managing to gulp endless glasses of some smoking, fiery substance through a slit over his mouth. Two figures shrouded in hoods sit at a table in one of the windows; I might have thought them dementors if they had not been talking in strong Yorkshire accents; in a shadowy corner beside the fireplace sits a witch with a thick, black veil that falls to her toes. I can just see the tip of her nose because it causes the veil to protrude slightly.

“I don’t know about this, Hermione,” Harry mutters, as we cross to the bar. Harry is looking particularly at the heavily veiled witch. “Has it occurred to you Umbridge might be under that?”

Hermione casts an appraising eye at the veiled figure.

“Umbridge is shorter than that woman,” she says quietly. “And anyway, even if Umbridge does come in here there’s nothing she can do to stop us, Harry, because I’ve double- and triple-checked the school rules. We’re not out-of-bounds; I specifically asked Professor Flitwick whether students were allowed to come in the Hog’s Head, and he said yes, but he advised me strongly to bring our own glasses. And I’ve looked up everything I can think of about study groups and homework groups and they’re definitely allowed. I just don’t think it’s a good idea if we parade what we’re doing.”

“No,” says Harry dryly, “especially as it’s not exactly a homework group you’re planning, is it?”

The barman sidles towards us out of a back room. He is a grumpy-looking old man with a great deal of long gray hair and beard. He is tall and thin and looks vaguely familiar to me.

“What?” he grunts.

“Four butterbeers, please,” says Hermione.

The man reaches beneath the counter and pulls up three very dusty, very dirty bottles, which he slams on the bar.

“Eight Sickles,” he says.

“I’ll get them,” says Harry quickly, passing over the silver. The barman’s eyes travel over Harry, resting for a fraction of a second on his scar. Then he turns away and deposits Harry’s money in an ancient wooden till whose drawer slides open automatically to receive it. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I retreat to the farthest table from the bar and sit down, looking around, while the man in the dirty gray bandages raps the counter with his knuckles and receives another smoking drink from the barman.

“You know what?” Ron murmurs, looking over at the bar with enthusiasm. “We could order anything we liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything, he wouldn’t care. I’ve always wanted to try firewhisky —”

“You — are — a — prefect,” snarls Hermione.

“Oh,” says Ron, the smile fading from his face. “Yeah . . .”

“So who did you say is supposed to be meeting us?” Harry asks, wrenching open the rusty top of his butterbeer and taking a swig.

“Just a couple of people,” Hermione repeats, checking her watch and then looking anxiously towards the door. “I told them to be here about now and I’m sure they all know where it is — oh look, this might be them now —”

I glance nervously over to the door. I wasn’t involved in the planning stages of this meeting since I’ve been busy with trying to stay afloat and not kill Umbridge by how easily she sets my magic off.

First comes Neville with Dean and Lavender, who are closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with (Harry’s get’s a goofy look on his face) Cho and one of her usually giggling girlfriends, then (on her own and looking so dreamy that she might have walked in by accident) Luna Lovegood; then Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis Creevey, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, and Susan Bones; three Ravenclaw boys Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot; Ginny, followed by a tall skinny blond boy with an upturned nose whom I recognize vaguely as being a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and bringing up the rear, Fred and George with their friend Lee Jordan, all three of whom are carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko’s merchandise.

The door opens quickly again letting Ariana Dumbledore and Luka who are both panting, their arms filled with Honeydukes bags.

“A couple of people?” says Harry hoarsely to Hermione. “A couple of people?”

“Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular,” says Hermione happily. “Ron, Jamie, do you want to pull up some more chairs?”

The barman has frozen in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy it looks as though it has never been washed. Possibly he has never seen his pub so full.

“Hi,” says Fred, reaching the bar first and counting his companions quickly. “Could we have . . . twenty-seven butterbeers, please?”

I snort grabbing another chair at the ridiculousness of that statement.

The barman glares at him for a moment, then, throwing down his rag irritably as though he was interrupted in something very important, he starts passing up dusty butterbeers from under the bar.

“Cheers,” says Fred, handing them out. “Cough up, everyone, I haven’t got enough gold for all of these . . .”

I watch amusedly as the large chattering group take their beers from Fred and rummage in their robes to find coins. Harry on the other hand still looks close to passing out or snapping at Hermione. It’s a toss up at this point.

“What have you been telling people?” Harry says in a low voice. “What are they expecting?”

“I’ve told you, they just want to hear what you’ve got to say,” says Hermione soothingly; but Harry continues to look at her so furiously that she adds quickly, “You don’t have to do anything yet, I’ll speak to them first.”

“Hi, Harry,” says Neville, beaming and taking a seat opposite Harry.

Harry tries to smile back but Cho distracts him sitting down on Ron’s right. Her friend, who has curly reddish-blonde hair, does not smile, but gives Harry a thoroughly mistrustful look that tells me plainly that, given her way, she would not be here at all.

In twos and threes the new arrivals settle around Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me some looking rather excited, others curious, Luna Lovegood gazing dreamily into space. Ginny snags a chair on my left, and Ariana the chair on my right. I smile at both of them. Luka is settled in with his Ravenclaw friends. When everybody has pulled up a chair, the chatter dies out. Every eye is on Harry.

“Er,” says Hermione, her voice slightly higher than usual out of nerves. “Well — er — hi.”

The group focuses its attention on her instead, though eyes continue to dart back regularly to Harry.

“Well . . . erm . . . well, you know why you’re here. Erm . . . well, Harry here had the idea — I mean” — Harry threw her a sharp look — “I had the idea — that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts — and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us” — (Hermione’s voice becomes suddenly much stronger and more confident) — “because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts” — “Hear, hear,” says Anthony Goldstein, and Hermione looks heartened — “well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands.”

She pauses, looked sideways at Harry, and goes on, “And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells —”

“You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?” says Michael Corner.

“Of course I do,” says Hermione at once. “But I want more than that, I want to be properly trained in Defense because . . . because . . .” She takes a great breath and finishes, “Because Lord Voldemort’s back.”

The reaction is immediate and predictable. Cho’s friend shrieks and slops butterbeer down herself, Terry Boot gives a kind of involuntary twitch, Padma Patil shudders, and Neville gives an odd yelp that he manages to turn into a cough. All of them, however, looked fixedly, even eagerly, at Harry.

“Well . . . that’s the plan anyway,” says Hermione. “If you want to join us, we need to decide how we’re going to —”

“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?” says the blond Hufflepuff player in a rather aggressive voice.

“Well, Dumbledore believes it —” Hermione begins.

“You mean, Dumbledore believes him,” says the blond boy, nodding at Harry.

“Who are you?” says Ron rather rudely.

“Zacharias Smith,” says the boy, “and I think we’ve got the right to know exactly what makes him say You-Know-Who’s back.”

“Watch your tone Smith or you’ll be looking at an awful lot of detentions for sneaking food into the dorm from the kitchens.” Ariana says with a mild threat in her voice.

“No, its fine Ariana.” Harry interrupts and all eyes turn back on him.

“What makes me say You-Know-Who’s back?” he asks, looking Zacharias straight in the face. “I saw him. But Dumbledore told the whole school what happened last year, and if you didn’t believe him, you don’t believe me, and I’m not wasting an afternoon trying to convince anyone.”

The whole group seems to have held its breath while Harry speaks.

Zacharias says dismissively, “All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-Know-Who and that you brought Diggory’s body back to Hogwarts. He didn’t give us details, he didn’t tell us exactly how Diggory got murdered, I think we’d all like to know —”

“If you’ve come to hear exactly what it looks like when Voldemort murders someone I can’t help you,” Harry says. His temper, always so close to the surface these days, is rising again. He does not take his eyes from Zacharias Smith’s aggressive face. “I don’t want to talk about Cedric Diggory, all right? So if that’s what you’re here for, you might as well clear out.”

With that Harry casts an angry look at Hermione who flinches. I keep quiet for this isn’t my battle to fight. Harry has to be willing to take this step himself without pressure from me either way.

“So,” says Hermione, her voice very high-pitched again. “So . . . like I was saying . . . if you want to learn some defense, then we need to work out how we’re going to do it, how often we’re going to meet, and where we’re going to —”

“Is it true,” interrupts Susan Bones, looking at Harry, “that you can produce a Patronus?”

There is a murmur of interest around the group at this. “Yeah,” says Harry slightly defensively.

“A corporeal Patronus?”

The phrase stirs something in Harry’s memory.

“Er — you don’t know Madam Bones, do you?” he asks. The girl smiles, and I chuckle along with Ariana.

“She’s my auntie,” she says. “I’m Susan Bones. She told me about your hearing. So — is it really true? You make a stag Patronus?”

“Yes,” says Harry.

“Blimey, Harry!” says Lee, looking deeply impressed. “I never knew that!”

“Mum told Ron not to spread it around,” says Fred, grinning at Harry. “She said you got enough attention as it was.”

“She’s not wrong,” mumbles Harry and a couple of people laugh. The veiled witch sitting alone shifts very slightly in her seat.

“And did you kill a basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore’s office?” demands Terry Boot. “That’s what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year . . .”

“Er — yeah, I did, yeah,” says Harry.

“Saw the whole thing myself. He saved me from becoming snake food. Not pleasant let me tell you.” I say with a grin.

Ginny shifts in her seat nervously because we’re talking about second year, and I grab her hand giving in a quick squeeze.

Justin Finch-Fletchley whistles, the Creevey brothers exchange awestruck looks, and Lavender Brown says “wow” softly.

“And in our first year,” says Neville to the group at large, “he saved that Sorcerous Stone —”

“Sorcerer’s,” hisses Hermione.

“Yes, that, from You-Know-Who,” finishes Neville. Hannah Abbott’s eyes are as round as Galleons.

“And that’s not to mention,” says Cho (Harry’s eyes snapped onto her, she is looking at him, smiling), “all the tasks he had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year — getting past dragons and merpeople and acromantulas and things . . .”

“Look,” he says and everyone falls silent at once, “I . . . I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be modest or anything, but . . . I had a lot of help with all that stuff . . .”

“Not with the dragon, you didn’t,” says Michael Corner at once. “That was a seriously cool bit of flying . . .”

“Yeah, well —” says Harry, feeling it would be churlish to disagree.

“And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors this summer,” says Susan Bones.

“No,” says Harry, “no, okay, I know I did bits of it without help, but the point I’m trying to make is —”

“Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?” says Zacharias Smith.

“Here’s an idea,” says Ron loudly, before Harry can speak, “why don’t you shut your mouth?”

Perhaps the word “weasel” has affected Ron particularly strongly; in any case, he is now looking at Zacharias as though he would like nothing better than to thump him. Zacharias flushes.

“Well, we’ve all turned up to learn from him, and now he’s telling us he can’t really do any of it,” he says.

“That’s not what he said,” snarls Fred.

“Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?” inquires George, pulling a long and lethal-looking metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko’s bags.

“Or any part of your body, really, we’re not fussy where we stick this,” says Fred.

“Yes, well,” says Hermione hastily, “moving on . . . the point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?”

There is a murmur of general agreement. Zacharias folds his arms and says nothing, though perhaps this is because he is too busy keeping an eye on the instrument in George’s hand.

“Right,” says Hermione, looking relieved that something has at last been settled. “Well, then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don’t think there’s any point in meeting less than once a week —”

“Hang on,” says Angelina, “we need to make sure this doesn’t clash with our Quidditch practice.”

“No,” says Cho, “nor with ours.”

“Nor ours,” adds Zacharias Smith.

“I’m sure we can find a night that suits everyone,” says Hermione, slightly impatiently, “but you know, this is rather important, we’re talking about learning to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort’s Death Eaters —”

“Well said!” barks Ernie Macmillan, whom I was expecting to speak long before this. “Personally I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we’ll do this year, even with our O.W.L.s coming up!”

He looks around impressively, as though waiting for people to cry, “Surely not!” When nobody speaks, he goes on, “I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us at this critical period. Obviously they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells —”

“We think the reason Umbridge doesn’t want us trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” I say, “is that she’s got some . . . some mad idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a kind of private army. She thinks he’d mobilize us against the Ministry.”

Nearly everybody looks stunned at this news; everybody except Luna Lovegood, who pipes up, “Well, that makes sense. After all, Cornelius Fudge has got his own private army.”

“What?” says Harry, completely thrown by this unexpected piece of information. How did I not know this? I share a worried look with Luka.

“Yes, he’s got an army of heliopaths,” says Luna solemnly. I sigh thankful for the scare to be over.

“No, he hasn’t,” snaps Hermione.

“Yes, he has,” says Luna.

“What are heliopaths?” asks Neville, looking blank.

“They’re spirits of fire,” says Luna, her protuberant eyes widening so that she looks madder than ever. “Great tall flaming creatures that gallop across the ground burning everything in front of —”

“They don’t exist, Neville,” says Hermione tartly.

“Oh yes they do!” says Luna angrily.

“I’m sorry, but where’s the proof of that?” snaps Hermione.

“There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just because you’re so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose before you —”

“Hem, hem,” says Ginny in such a good imitation of Professor Umbridge that several people look around in alarm and then laugh. “Weren’t we trying to decide how often we’re going to meet and get Defense lessons?”

“Yes,” says Hermione at once, “yes, we were, you’re right . . .”

“Well, once a week sounds cool,” says Lee Jordan.

“As long as —” begins Angelina.

“Yes, yes, we know about the Quidditch,” says Hermione in a tense voice. “Well, the other thing to decide is where we’re going to meet . . .”

This is rather more difficult; the whole group falls silent.

“Library?” suggests Katie Bell after a few moments.

“I can’t see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us doing jinxes in the library,” says Harry.

“Maybe an unused classroom?” says Dean.

“Yeah,” says Ron, “McGonagall might let us have hers, she did when Harry was practicing for the Triwizard . . .”

“I don’t think she’s going to endorse us going against Umbridge. She’s made that perfectly clear.” I say cutting off that idea. I rub my scarred hand unconsciously to a worried look from Ariana.

“Right, well, we’ll try to find somewhere,” says Hermione. “We’ll send a message round to everybody when we’ve got a time and a place for the first meeting.”

She rummages in her bag and produces parchment and a quill, then hesitates, rather as though she is steeling herself to say something.

“I-I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here. But I also think,” she takes a deep breath, “that we all ought to agree not to shout about what we’re doing. So if you sign, you’re agreeing not to tell Umbridge — or anybody else — what we’re up to.”

Fred reaches out for the parchment and cheerfully puts down his signature, but I notice at once that several people look less than happy at the prospect of putting their names on the list.

“Er . . .” says Zacharias slowly, not taking the parchment that George is trying to pass him. “Well . . . I’m sure Ernie will tell me when the meeting is.”

But Ernie is looking rather hesitant about signing too. Hermione raises her eyebrows at him.

“I — well, we are prefects,” Ernie bursts out. “And if this list was found . . . well, I mean to say . . . you said yourself, if Umbridge finds out . . .”

“You just said this group was the most important thing you’d do this year,” Harry reminds him.

“I — yes,” says Ernie, “yes, I do believe that, it’s just . . .”

“Ernie, do you really think I’d leave that list lying around?” says Hermione testily.

“No. No, of course not,” says Ernie, looking slightly less anxious. “I — yes, of course I’ll sign.”

Nobody raises objections after Ernie, though I see Cho’s friend give her a rather reproachful look before adding her name. When the last person — Zacharias — has signed, Hermione takes the parchment back and slips it carefully into her bag. There is an odd feeling in the group now. It is as though we have just signed some kind of contract.

I hope Hermione knows what she’s doing.

“Well, time’s ticking on,” says Fred briskly, getting to his feet. “George, Lee, and I have got items of a sensitive nature to purchase, we’ll be seeing you all later.”

In twos and threes the rest of the group takes their leave too. Cho makes rather a business of fastening the catch on her bag before leaving, her long dark curtain of hair swinging forward to hide her face, but her friend stands beside her, arms folded, clicking her tongue, so that Cho has little choice but to leave with her. As her friend ushers her through the door, Cho looks back and waves at Harry. Could those two be more obvious?

“Well, I think that went quite well,” says Hermione happily, as she, Harry, Ron, and I walk out of the Hog’s Head into the bright sunlight a few moments later, Harry and Ron still clutching their bottles of butterbeer.

“That Zacharias bloke’s a wart,” says Ron, who is glowering after the figure of Smith just discernible in the distance.

“I don’t like him much either,” admits Hermione, “but he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah at the Hufflepuff table and he seemed really interested in coming, so what could I say? But the more people the better really — I mean, Michael Corner and his friends wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been going out with Ginny —”

Ron, who was draining the last few drops from his butterbeer bottle, gags and sprays butterbeer down his front. I snicker at his reaction. Ginny was really hoping to have been keeping that a secret from Ron for a good long time. I guess that the cat’s out of the bag now. For someone as smart as Hermione is, she sure doesn’t know when to keep quiet about some things.

“He’s WHAT?” says Ron, outraged, his ears now resembling curls of raw beef. “She’s going out with — my sister’s going — what d’you mean, Michael Corner?”

“Well, that’s why he and his friends came, I think — well, they’re obviously interested in learning Defense, but if Ginny hadn’t told Michael what was going on —”

“When did this — when did she — ?”

“They met at the Yule Ball and they got together at the end of last year,” says Hermione composedly. They we turn into the High Street and she pauses outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, where there is a handsome display of pheasant-feather quills in the window. “Hmm . . . I could do with a new quill.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Ron says turning to me with a scandalized look on his face.

“Ginny’s practically my sister. I owe her allegiance.” I say simply. Ron gapes some more.

“But I’m one of your best mates!” Ron cries. I roll my eyes at him.

“And practically my brother as well. All the more reason to keep you out of the loop.” I tell him. At that Ron truly looks mad.

Hermione turns into the shop. Harry, Ron, and I follow her.

“Which one was Michael Corner?” Ron demands furiously.

“The dark one,” says Hermione.

“I didn’t like him,” says Ron at once.

“Big surprise,” says Hermione under her breath.

“But,” says Ron, following Hermione along a row of quills in copper pots, “I thought Ginny fancied Harry!”

I roll my eyes. As much as that girl may tell me she is over her crush, I know there is still a small part of her that still likes him.

Hermione looks at him rather pityingly and shakes her head.

“Ginny used to fancy Harry, but she gave up on him months ago. Not that she doesn’t like you, of course,” she adds kindly to Harry while she examines a long black-and-gold quill.

Harry doesn’t seem particularly interested in the conversation even. I roll my eyes, three guesses who is still going through his head, a certain Ravenclaw Seeker perhaps?

“So that’s why she talks now?” Harry asks Hermione and me. “She never used to talk in front of me.”

“Exactly,” says Hermione. “Yes, I think I’ll have this one . . .”

She goes up to the counter and hands over fifteen Sickles and two Knuts, Ron still breathing down her neck.

“Ron,” she says severely as she turns and trod on his feet, “this is exactly why Ginny hasn’t told you she’s seeing Michael, she knew you’d take it badly. So don’t harp on about it, for heaven’s sake.”

“What d’you mean, who’s taking anything badly? I’m not going to harp on about anything . . .”

“Says the boy who is still complaining about losing that one game of yard Quidditch early last summer.” I say loudly. Ron shoots me a dirty glare.

“That’s because Ginny makes a shoddy ref. She gave you that call only because you’re a girl.” Ron protests.

“See?” I say gesturing to him. Harry and Hermione roll their eyes and laugh at him.

Ron continues to chunter under his breath all the way down the street. Hermione rolls her eyes at Harry and then says in an undertone, while Ron is muttering imprecations about Michael Corner, “And talking about Michael and Ginny . . . what about Cho and you?”

“What d’you mean?” says Harry quickly. His cheeks are quick to turn a rosy red. I smile knowingly along with Hermione.

“Well,” says Hermione, smiling slightly, “she just couldn’t keep her eyes off you, could she?”

Harry’s smile grows about three sizes. Before we can think to go anywhere else though a certain blond haired Hufflepuff prefect pops up in front of us. “All right Pendragon, its time to pay up on your promise.” She says happily. I cock my head to the side at that.

“What promise?” I ask frantically searching my memory for any such promise. A faux hurt look falls on Ariana’s face.

“You mean you already forgot getting me the largest chocolate bar that I can possibly stand, if I didn’t go and kill that vile toad for hurting you?” She cries. Harry and Hermione looked shocked that she knows about the secret behind my hand.

“Oh that one. Okay fine, but when you get a stomach ache don’t come crying to me, I won’t have any sympathy what so ever.” I state. A wide smile erupts onto her face, and mine mimics it.

“Great! There’s this new caramel almond that I’m dying to try…” She starts grabbing my arm and pulling me down the street towards Honeyduke’s.

I can just barely hear Hermione mutter, “Talk about oblivious.”


	14. Educational Decree Number 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 14- Educational Decree Number 24

 

I feel the happiest that I have felt all term for the rest of the week, and honestly I couldn’t keep the smile off of my face. For once while Harry and Ron played catch up all Sunday, I was able to relax and get some drawing and prank planning done. It was a well needed, and well deserved reward.

The last burst of autumn sunshine persists, so Harry and Ron decide that their homework can be done just as easily outside as in, so the four of us venture out onto the grounds to lounge in the shade of the large beech tree by the side of the lake. Hermione brings along lots of wool to continue her knitting, and I bring my sketchpad to draw a poor headless boar chasing around the butcher who cut his head off. I was planning on enchanting them, and Hermione thought it was rather gruesome.

Harry was much happier now that we had a plan to defy Umbridge and the Ministry, it was our own way of fighting back, while still giving ourselves a fighting chance for what is to come. I was rather happy just be able to use magic again in defense, it isn’t particularly my favorite subject, but it is still entertaining and useful most times (when not taught by Umbridge).

We are all still cheerful (except for a few mutinous grumbles from Ron about Ginny) come Monday morning.

I’m waiting for Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the common room, when I notice a group of students huddled around the message board. I drift over in interest, hearing Harry and Ron coming down the stairs talking about a move that Angelina’s going to teach at practice this evening.

The three of us nod in greeting, and turn our attention to the board.

A large sign has been affixed to the Gryffindor message board, so large that it covers everything else on there — the lists of secondhand spellbooks for sale, the regular reminders of school rules from Argus Filch, the Quidditch team training schedule, the offers to barter certain Chocolate Frog cards for others, the Weasleys’ new advertisement for testers, the dates of the Hogsmeade weekends, and the lost-and-found notices. The new sign is printed in large black letters and there is a highly official-looking seal at the bottom beside a neat and curly signature.

——— BY ORDER OF ———

The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts

 

All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded.

An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students.

Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge).

No Student Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.

Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled.

 

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-four.

Dolores Jane Umbridge

High Inquisitor

 

“Does this mean they’re going to shut down the Gobstones Club?” one second year asks his friend.

“I reckon you’ll be okay with Gobstones,” Ron says darkly, making the second year jump. “I don’t think we’re going to be as lucky, though, do you?” he asks Harry, and me as the second years hurry away.

Just great, this is unbelievable.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Harry says, his hands forming fists. “She knows.”

“She can’t,” says Ron at once.

“Yeah, there wasn’t a stitch of pink in sight!” I exclaim much to the annoyance of the boys. I guess they aren’t in the mood to laugh it off quite yet.

“There were people listening in that pub. And let’s face it, we don’t know how many of the people who turned up we can trust. . . . Any of them could have run off and told Umbridge . . .”

“Zacharias Smith!” says Ron at once, punching a fist into his hand. “Or — I thought that Michael Corner had a really shifty look too —”

“You’re just saying that for he’s going out with Ginny.” I counter.

“I wonder if Hermione’s seen this yet?” Harry says, looking around at the door to the girls’ dormitories.

“Let’s go and tell her,” says Ron. He bounds forward, pulls open the door, and sets off up the spiral staircase. My eyes widen in horror.

“No! Don’t!” I shout after them. It’s too late though.

Ron is on the sixth stair when it happens. There is a loud, wailing, klaxonlike sound and the steps melt together to make a long, smooth stone slide. There is a brief moment when Ron tries to keep running, arms working madly like windmills, then he topples over backward and shoots down the newly created slide, coming to rest on his back at Harry’s feet.

“I told you… why don’t you ever listen to me.” I groan making my way over to them.

“Er — I don’t think we’re allowed in the girls’ dormitories,” says Harry, pulling Ron to his feet and trying not to laugh.

Two fourth-year girls come zooming gleefully down the stone slide.

“Oooh, who tried to get upstairs?” they giggle happily, leaping to their feet and ogling Harry and Ron. I roll my eyes at them.

“Me,” says Ron, who is still rather disheveled. “I didn’t realize that would happen. It’s not fair!” he adds to Harry, as the girls head off for the portrait hole, still giggling madly. “Hermione’s allowed in our dormitory, how come we’re not allowed — ?”

“Well, it’s an old-fashioned rule,” says Hermione, who has just slid neatly onto a rug in front of us and is now getting to her feet, “but it says in Hogwarts: A History that the founders thought boys were less trustworthy than girls. Anyway, why were you trying to get in there?”

“To see you — look at this!” says Ron, dragging her over to the message board.

Hermione’s eyes slide rapidly down the notice. Her expression becomes stony.

“Someone must have blabbed to her!” Ron says angrily.

“They can’t have done,” says Hermione in a low voice.

“You’re so naive,” says Ron, “you think just because you’re all honorable and trustworthy —”

“No, they can’t have done because I put a jinx on that piece of parchment we all signed,” says Hermione grimly. “Believe me, if anyone’s run off and told Umbridge, we’ll know exactly who they are and they will really regret it.”

“What’ll happen to them?” says Ron eagerly. I look at Hermione cautiously wondering what exactly I’ve gotten myself into.

“Well, put it this way,” says Hermione, “it’ll make Eloise Midgen’s acne look like a couple of cute freckles. Come on, let’s get down to breakfast and see what the others think. . . . I wonder whether this has been put up in all the Houses?”

I shudder at the thought of the punishment. Thank Merlin all the people that I know and care about are apart of the group, or I would have a hard time with the whole contract thing.

It is immediately apparent on entering the Great Hall that Umbridge’s sign has not only appeared in Gryffindor Tower. There is a peculiar intensity about the chatter and an extra measure of movement in the Hall as people scurry up and down their tables conferring on what they had read. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I have barely taken our seats when Neville, Dean, Fred, George, and Ginny descend upon us.

“Did you see it?”

“D’you reckon she knows?”

“What are we going to do?”

They are all looking at Harry. He glances around to make sure there are no teachers near us.

“We’re going to do it anyway, of course,” he says quietly. I grin hearing that.

“Knew you’d say that,” says George, beaming and thumping Harry on the arm.

“The prefects as well?” says Fred, looking quizzically at Ron and Hermione.

“Of course,” says Hermione coolly.

“Here comes Ernie and Hannah Abbott,” says Ron, looking over his shoulder. “And those Ravenclaw blokes and Smith . . . and no one looks very spotty.”

Hermione looks alarmed.

“Never mind spots, the idiots can’t come over here now, it’ll look really suspicious — sit down!” she mouths to Ernie and Hannah, gesturing frantically to them to rejoin the Hufflepuff table. Ariana gets up and bodily gets them back into their seats with some stern whispers. “Later! We’ll — talk — to — you — later!”

“I’ll tell Michael,” says Ginny impatiently, swinging herself off her bench. “The fool, honestly . . .”

She hurries off toward the Ravenclaw table; I watch her go. Cho is sitting not far away, talking to the curly-haired friend she brought along to the Hog’s Head.

But the full repercussions of the sign are not felt until they we are leaving the Great Hall for History of Magic.

“Jamie! Harry! Ron!” It is Angelina and she is hurrying towards us looking perfectly desperate.

“It’s okay,” says Harry quietly, when she is near enough to hear him. “We’re still going to —”

“You realize she’s including Quidditch in this?” Angelina says over him. “We have to go and ask permission to re-form the Gryffindor team!”

“What?” says Harry.

“No way,” says Ron, appalled.

“I officially hate her worse than before.” I growl.

“You read the sign, it mentions teams too! So listen, Harry, Jamie . . . I am saying this for the last time. . . . Please, please don’t lose your tempers with Umbridge again or she might not let us play anymore!”

“Okay, okay,” says Harry, for Angelina looks as though she is on the verge of tears. “Don’t worry, I’ll behave myself . . .”

“I’ll try my best.” I respond earnestly more nervous about DADA class than ever now.

“Bet Umbridge is in History of Magic,” says Ron grimly, as we set off for Binns’s lesson. “She hasn’t inspected Binns yet. . . . Bet you anything she’s there . . .”

But he is wrong; the only teacher present when we enter is Professor Binns, floating an inch or so above his chair as usual and preparing to continue his monotonous drone on giant wars. I decide to half listen and doodle cats on the margins of my paper like usual.

I look up from my paper suddenly to see Hermione jabbing her elbow into Harry and pointing out the window.

Harry look around. Hedwig is perched on the narrow window ledge, gazing through the thick glass at us, a letter tied to her leg. Funny, I wonder why she didn’t drop the letter off at breakfast? Some of our other classmates are pointing out Hedwig as well. Am I seeing things or is Hedwig starting to look a little… different?

“Oh, I’ve always loved that owl, she’s so beautiful,” I hear Lavender sigh to Parvati. I roll my eyes, like she could ever get an owl like Hedwig, poor thing would be dressed up in minutes.

Harry quickly slips out of his seat, and covertly makes his way over to the window, opening it up, and Hedwig jumps onto his shoulder.

Harry closes the window and makes his way back to his seat next to Ron, besides Hermione and me.

It is only then that we realize that Hedwig’s feathers are oddly ruffled; some are bent the wrong way, and she is holding one of her wings at an odd angle.

“She’s hurt!” Harry whispers, bending his head low over her. Hermione, Ron, and I lean in closer; Hermione even puts down her quill. “Look — there’s something wrong with her wing —”

Hedwig is quivering; when Harry makes to touch the wing she gives a little jump, all her feathers on end as though she is inflating herself, and gazes at him reproachfully.

“Professor Binns,” says Harry loudly, and everyone in the class turns to look at him. “I’m not feeling well.”

Professor Binns raises his eyes from his notes, looking amazed, as always, to find the room in front of him full of people.

“Not feeling well?” he repeats hazily.

“Not at all well,” says Harry firmly, getting to his feet while concealing Hedwig behind his back. “So I think I’ll need to go to the hospital wing.”

“Yes,” says Professor Binns, clearly very much wrong-footed. “Yes . . . yes, hospital wing . . . well, off you go, then, Perkins . . .”

Harry hurries out of the room with Hedwig, and I can only hope that he’s going to get her properly looked after. I love that owl as much as I love Diyonysus, and the pair do seem awfully close.

The last few minutes of class seem to crawl by, but when the bell finally sounds we gather up out things hurriedly, and make for the courtyard where Harry will hopefully meet us. A few minutes later we spot him, and he’s absently looking down at the note that was attatched to Hedwig’s foot earlier.

“Is Hedwig okay?” asks Hermione anxiously, the moment he is within earshot.

“Where did you take her?” asks Ron.

“To Grubbly-Plank,” says Harry. “And I met McGonagall . . . Listen . . .”

And he tells us that Professor McGonagall said that some methods of Hogwarts communication may be monitored now. We’re not all the shocked, but it seems to surprise Harry.

“What?” says Harry, looking from Ron to Hermione to me, and back again.

“Well, I was just saying to Jamie, and Ron . . . what if someone had tried to intercept Hedwig? I mean, she’s never been hurt on a flight before, has she?”

“Who’s the letter from anyway?” asks Ron, taking the note from Harry.

“Snuffles,” says Harry quietly.

“Snuffles is going to get himself killed.” I mutter softly.

“‘Same time, same place’? Does he mean the fire in the common room?”

“Obviously,” says Hermione, also reading the note. She looks uneasy. “I just hope nobody else has read this . . .”

“But it was still sealed and everything,” says Harry, looking like he’s trying to convince himself as much as her. “And nobody would understand what it meant if they didn’t know where we’d spoken to him before, would they?”

“I don’t know,” says Hermione anxiously, hitching her bag back over her shoulder as the bell rings again. “It wouldn’t be exactly difficult to reseal the scroll by magic. . . . And if anyone’s watching the Floo Network . . . but I don’t really see how we can warn him not to come without that being intercepted too!”

We trudge down the stone steps to the dungeons for Potions, all four of us lost in thought, but as we reach the bottom of the stairs we are recalled to ourselves by the voice of Draco Malfoy, who is standing just outside Snape’s classroom door, waving around an official-looking piece of parchment and talking much louder than is necessary so that we can hear every word.

“Yeah, Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team permission to continue playing straightaway, I went to ask her first thing this morning. Well, it was pretty much automatic, I mean, she knows my father really well, he’s always popping in and out of the Ministry. . . . It’ll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor are allowed to keep playing, won’t it?”

“Don’t rise,” Hermione whispers imploringly to Harry, Ron, and me, we are watching Malfoy, faces set and fists clenched. “It’s what he wants . . .”

“I reckon she gave you that paper just to have you and your father shut up about yourselves. Even a toad like he needs a break from the constant ego of the Malfoys.” I say back grinning while baring my teeth. Malfoy’s eyes narrow at me, and pink tinges his cheeks before he turns away to look for a weaker target.

“I mean,” says Malfoy, raising his voice a little more, his gray eyes glittering malevolently in Harry and Ron’s direction now, “if it’s a question of influence with the Ministry, I don’t think they’ve got much chance. . . . From what my father says, they’ve been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years. . . . And as for Potter . . . My father says it’s a matter of time before the Ministry has him carted off to St. Mungo’s. . . . apparently they’ve got a special ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic . . .”

Okay, he went too far. Malfoy makes a grotesque face, his mouth sagging open and his eyes rolling. Crabbe and Goyle gives their usual grunts of laughter, Pansy Parkinson shrieks with glee. I feel when my hands ignite.

Something collides hard with my shoulder, knocking me sideways. A split second later I realize that Neville has just charged past me, heading straight for Malfoy.

“Neville, no!” I cry.

Harry leaps forward and seizes the back of Neville’s robes; Neville struggles frantically, his fists flailing, trying desperately to get at Malfoy who looks, for a moment, extremely shocked.

“Help me!” Harry flings at Ron, managing to get an arm around Neville’s neck and dragging him backwards, away from the Slytherins. Crabbe and Goyle are now flexing their arms, closing in front of Malfoy, ready for the fight. Ron hurries forward and seizes Neville’s arms; together, he and Harry succeed in dragging Neville back into the Gryffindor line. I want to help but I fear my fire will hurt instead of help. Neville’s face is scarlet; the pressure Harry is exerting on his throat renders him quite incomprehensible, but odd words splutter from his mouth.

“Not . . . funny . . . don’t . . . Mungo’s . . . show . . . him . . .”

The dungeon door opens, and I groan at the horrible timing. Snape appears there. His black eyes sweep up the Gryffindor line to the point where Harry and Ron are wrestling with Neville.

“Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?” Snape says in his cold, sneering voice. “Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention. Inside, all of you.” He glances at me and sees the blue flickering light.

“Do extinguish yourself before coming in Pendragon.” He say drolly before sweeping back inside.

Harry lets go of Neville, who stands panting and glaring at him.

“I had to stop you,” Harry gasps, picking up his bag. “Crabbe and Goyle would’ve torn you apart.”

Neville says nothing, he merely snatches up his own bag and stalks off into the dungeon.

“What in the name of Merlin,” says Ron slowly, as we follow Neville, “was that about?”

I attempt to calm myself down.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I take our usual seats at the back of the class and pull out parchment, quills, and our copies of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. The class around us is whispering about what Neville had just done, but when Snape closes the dungeon door with an echoing bang everybody falls silent immediately.

“You will notice,” says Snape in his low, sneering voice, “that we have a guest with us today.”

He gestures towards the dim corner of the dungeon, and I see Professor Umbridge sitting there, clipboard on her knee. I glance sideways at Ron, Harry, and Hermione, my eyebrows raised. Snape and Umbridge, the two teachers I hate most . . . it is hard to decide which I wanted to triumph over the other.

“As much as I hate to say this I want Snape over her.” I mutter quietly to them.

“We are continuing with our Strengthening Solutions today, you will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson, if correctly made they should have matured well over the weekend — instructions” — he waves his wand again — “on the board. Carry on.”

Professor Umbridge spends the first half hour of the lesson making notes in her corner, and I spend the time fighting to have my magic stay undercontrol, for some reason it is riding close to the surface today. Harry is very interested in hearing her question Snape, so interested, that he is becoming careless with his potion again.

“Salamander blood, Harry!” Hermione moans, grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong ingredient for the third time. “Not pomegranate juice!”

“Yeah I don’t need a giant explosion today.” I tell him, adding in my own salamander blood.

“Right,” says Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle and continuing to watch the corner. I look over Umbridge has just gotten to her feet. “Ha,” he says softly, as she strides between two lines of desks toward Snape, who is bending over Dean Thomas’s cauldron.

“Well, the class seems fairly advanced for their level,” she says briskly to Snape’s back. “Though I would question whether it is advisable to teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus.”

I roll my eyes almost wishing Snape would hit her. Snape straightens up slowly and turns to look at her.

“Now . . . how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?” she asks, her quill poised over her clipboard.

“Fourteen years,” Snape replies. His expression is unfathomable.

“You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?” Professor Umbridge asks Snape.

“Yes,” says Snape quietly.

“But you were unsuccessful?”

Snape’s lip curls.

“Obviously.”

Professor Umbridge scribbles on her clipboard.

“And you have applied regularly for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe?”

“Yes,” says Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He looks very angry. I quickly fix my eyes back on my potion but keep listening in.

“Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?” asks Umbridge.

“I suggest you ask him,” says Snape jerkily.

“Oh I shall,” says Professor Umbridge with a sweet smile.

“I suppose this is relevant?” Snape asks, his black eyes narrowed.

“Oh yes,” says Professor Umbridge. “Yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teachers’ — er — backgrounds . . .”

“Meaning she just likes to pry her toady arse in where it doesn’t belong.” I hiss under my breath.

Suddenly Snape is standing right in front of our bench.

“Harry’s potion is now congealing foully and giving off a strong smell of burned rubber.

“No marks again, then, Potter,” says Snape maliciously, emptying Harry’s cauldron with a wave of his wand. “You will write me an essay on the correct composition of this potion, indicating how and why you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you understand?”

“Yes,” says Harry furiously. Snape has already given us homework, and we have Quidditch practice this evening; this will mean another couple of sleepless nights for Harry. I give him a sympathetic look and stir my potion, which looks fairly correct to me.

“Maybe I’ll skive off Divination,” Harry says glumly as we stand again in the courtyard after lunch, the wind whipping at the hems of robes and brims of hats. “I’ll pretend to be ill and do Snape’s essay instead, then I won’t have to stay up half the night . . .”

“You can’t skive off Divination,” says Hermione severely.

“Hark who’s talking, you walked out of Divination, you hate Trelawney!” says Ron indignantly.

“This is another first to mark on my calendar.” I say with a joking smile.

“I don’t hate her,” says Hermione loftily. “I just think she’s an absolutely appalling teacher and a real old fraud. . . . But Harry’s already missed History of Magic and I don’t think he ought to miss anything else today!”

Harry ends up not being able to find away out of Hermione’s logic so a half hour later he is up in the tower along with the rest of us. He looks really angry though so this lesson should be a hoot.

Professor Trelawney is passing out the Dream Oracle again. It seems, however, that Harry is not the only person in Divination who is in a temper. Professor Trelawney slams a copy of the Oracle down on the table between Ron and me and sweeps away, her lips pursed; she throws the next copy of the Oracle at Seamus and Dean, narrowly avoiding Seamus’s head, and thrusts the final one into Neville’s chest with such force that he slips off his pouf.

“Well, carry on!” says Professor Trelawney loudly, her voice high-pitched and somewhat hysterical. “You know what to do! Or am I such a substandard teacher that you have never learned how to open a book?”

Okay this day is getting to be ridiculous.

The class stares perplexedly at her and then at each other. I, think I know what is the matter. As Professor Trelawney flounces back to the high-backed teacher’s chair, her magnified eyes full of angry tears, I lean my head closer to Ron and Harry’s and mutter, “I think she’s got the results of her inspection back.”

“Professor?” says Parvati Patil in a hushed voice (she and Lavender have always rather admired Professor Trelawney). “Professor, is there anything — er — wrong?”

“Wrong!” cries Professor Trelawney in a voice throbbing with emotion. “Certainly not! I have been insulted, certainly. . . . Insinuations have been made against me. . . . Unfounded accusations levelled . . . but no, there is nothing wrong, certainly not . . .”

She takes a great shuddering breath and looks away from Parvati, angry tears spilling from under her glasses.

“I say nothing,” she chokes, “of sixteen years’ devoted service. . . . It has passed, apparently, unnoticed. . . . But I shall not be insulted, no, I shall not!”

“But Professor, who’s insulting you?” asks Parvati timidly.

“The establishment!” says Professor Trelawney in a deep, dramatic, wavering voice. “Yes, those with eyes too clouded by the Mundane to See as I See, to Know as I Know . . . Of course, we Seers have always been feared, always persecuted. . . . It is — alas — our fate . . .”

She gulps, dabs at her wet cheeks with the end of her shawl, and then pulls a small, embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve, into which she blows her nose very hard with a sound like Peeves blowing a raspberry. Ron snigger, and I roll my eyes at him. Lavender shoots him a disgusted look.

“Professor,” says Parvati, “do you mean . . . is it something Professor Umbridge . . . ?”

“Do not speak to me about that woman!” cries Professor Trelawney, leaping to her feet, her beads rattling and her spectacles flashing. “Kindly continue with your work!”

And she spends the rest of the lesson striding among us, tears still leaking from behind her glasses, muttering what sounds like threats under her breath. As much as I dislike having her as a teacher, I still feel bad for her. I would pick Trelawney any day over that evil toad.

“ . . . may well choose to leave . . . the indignity of it . . . on probation . . . we shall see . . . how she dares . . .”

“You and Umbridge have got something in common,” Harry tells Hermione quietly when we meet again in Defense Against the Dark Arts. “She obviously reckons Trelawney’s an old fraud too. . . . Looks like she’s put her on probation.”

Umbridge enters the room as he speaks, wearing her black velvet bow and an expression of great smugness.

“Good afternoon, class.”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” we chant drearily, and I can’t help the eye roll.

“Wands away, please . . .”

But there is no answering flurry of movement this time; nobody has bothered to take out their wands.

“Please turn to page thirty-four of Defensive Magical Theory and read the third chapter, entitled ‘The Case for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical Attack.’ There will be —”

“— no need to talk,” Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I say together under our breaths.

* * *

 

“No Quidditch practice,” says Angelina in hollow tones when Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I enter the common room that night after dinner.

“But I kept my temper!” says Harry, horrified. “I didn’t say anything to her, Angelina, I swear, I —”

“I know, I know,” says Angelina miserably. “She just said she needed a bit of time to consider.”

“Consider what?” says Ron angrily. “She’s given the Slytherins permission, why not us?”

“How long she wants to enjoy having us at her mercy.” I growl.

“Well,” says Hermione, “look on the bright side — at least now you’ll have time to do Snape’s essay!”

“That’s a bright side, is it?” snaps Harry, while Ron stares incredulously at Hermione. “No Quidditch practice and extra Potions?”

Harry slumps down into a chair, drags his Potions essay reluctantly from his bag, and sets to work. I take a seat beside him and work on the Potions homework today, secretly glad I only have one essay to do.

It’s kind of hard to concentrate though. There is also an incredible amount of noise in the room: Fred and George appear finally to have perfected one type of Skiving Snackbox, which they are taking turns to demonstrate to a cheering and whooping crowd.

First, Fred will take a bite out of the orange end of a chew, at which he will vomit spectacularly into a bucket they placed in front of them. Then he will force down the purple end of the chew, at which the vomiting would immediately cease. Lee Jordan, who is assisting the demonstration, is lazily vanishing the vomit at regular intervals with the same Vanishing Spell Snape keeps using on Harry’s potions.

Hermione is not helping matters; the cheers and sound of vomit hitting the bottom of Fred and George’s bucket are punctuated by loud and disapproving sniffs that I found, if anything, more distracting.

“Just go and stop them, then!” Harry finally says irritably, after crossing out the wrong weight of powdered griffin claw for the fourth time.

“I can’t, they’re not technically doing anything wrong,” says Hermione through gritted teeth. “They’re quite within their rights to eat the foul things themselves, and I can’t find a rule that says the other idiots aren’t entitled to buy them, not unless they’re proven to be dangerous in some way, and it doesn’t look as though they are . . .”

She, Harry, Ron, and I watch George projectile-vomit into the bucket, gulp down the rest of the chew, and straighten up, beaming with his arms wide to protracted applause. I grin at the duo fondly even if they’re making it hard for me to work.

“You know, I don’t get why Fred and George only got three O.W.L.s each,” says Harry, watching as Fred, George, and Lee collect gold from the eager crowd. “They really know their stuff . . .”

“They’re genius, just not the way that everyone thinks that they should be.” I say.

“Oh, they only know flashy stuff that’s no real use to anyone,” says Hermione disparagingly.

“No real use?” says Ron in a strained voice. “Hermione, they’ve got about twenty-six Galleons already . . .”

“Just drop it Mione.” I say in a steely voice. I don’t want to go off on my best friend for this, I really don’t. If she’s this hard on Fred and George then she’s going to be disappointed that I don’t really want a typical career.

It is a long while before the crowd around the Weasleys disperses, and then Fred, Lee, and George sit up counting their takings even longer, so that it is well past midnight when Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I finally have the common room to ourselves again. I managed to finish my homework at least. At long last, Fred closes the doorway to the boys’ dormitories behind him, rattling his box of Galleons ostentatiously so that Hermione scowls. Harry, who is making very little progress with his Potions essay, decides to give it up for the night. As he puts his books away, Ron, who is dozing lightly in an armchair, gives a muffled grunt, wakes, looks blearily into the fire and says, “Sirius!”

Harry whips around; Sirius’s untidy dark head is sitting in the fire again.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

“Hi,” choruses Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me all four of us kneeling down upon the hearthrug. Crookshanks purrs loudly and approaches the fire, trying, despite the heat, to put his face close to Sirius’s.

“How’re things?” says Sirius.

“Not that good,” says Harry, as Hermione pulls Crookshanks back to stop him singeing his whiskers. “The Ministry’s forced through another decree, which means we’re not allowed to have Quidditch teams —”

“— or secret Defense Against the Dark Arts groups?” says Sirius. I freeze.

There is a short pause.

“How did you know about that?” Harry demands.

“You want to choose your meeting places more carefully,” says Sirius, grinning still more broadly. “The Hog’s Head, I ask you . . .”

“Well, it was better than the Three Broomsticks!” says Hermione defensively. “That’s always packed with people —”

“— which means you’d have been harder to overhear,” says Sirius. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Hermione.”

“Who overheard us?” Harry demands.

“Mundungus, of course,” says Sirius, and when we all look puzzled he laughs. “He was the witch under the veil.”

“I don’t think the look does much for him.” I state. Sirius chuckles in the fire.

“That was Mundungus?” Harry says, stunned. “What was he doing in the Hog’s Head?”

“What do you think he was doing?” says Sirius impatiently. “Keeping an eye on you, of course.”

“I’m still being followed?” asks Harry angrily.

“Yeah, you are,” says Sirius, “and just as well, isn’t it, if the first thing you’re going to do on your weekend off is organize an illegal defense group.”

But he looks neither angry nor worried; on the contrary, he is looking at Harry with distinct pride.

“Why was Dung hiding from us?” asks Ron, sounding disappointed. “We’d’ve liked to’ve seen him.”

“He was banned from the Hog’s Head twenty years ago,” says Sirius, “and that barman’s got a long memory. We lost Moody’s spare Invisibility Cloak when Sturgis was arrested, so Dung’s been dressing as a witch a lot lately. . . . Anyway . . . First of all, Ron, Jamie — I’ve sworn to pass on a message from your mother.”

“Oh yeah?” says Ron, sounding apprehensive. I cringe really not looking forward to what this massage could be.

“She says on no account whatsoever are you two to take part in an illegal secret Defense Against the Dark Arts group. She says you’ll be expelled for sure and your future will be ruined. She says there will be plenty of time to learn how to defend yourselves later and that you are too young to be worrying about that right now. She also” — Sirius’s eyes turn to the other two — “advises Harry and Hermione not to proceed with the group, though she accepts that she has no authority over either of them and simply begs them to remember that she has their best interests at heart. She would have written all this to you, but if the owl had been intercepted you’d all have been in real trouble, and she can’t say it for herself because she’s on duty tonight.”

“On duty doing what?” says Ron quickly. I’m still wheeling over the idea that Molly still has that much say in my life. Even though it’s been almost two years it still feels so new sometimes.

“On duty doing what?” says Ron quickly.

“Never you mind, just stuff for the Order,” says Sirius. “So it’s fallen to me to be the messenger and make sure you tell her I passed it all on, because I don’t think she trusts me to.”

There is another pause in which Crookshanks, mewing, attempts to paw Sirius’s head, and Ron fiddles with a hole in the hearthrug.

“So you want me to say I’m not going to take part in the defense group?” Harry mutters finally.

“Me? Certainly not!” says Sirius, looking surprised. “I think it’s an excellent idea!”

“You do?” says Harry, a smile beginning to form on his face.

“Of course I do!” says Sirius. “D’you think your father and I would’ve lain down and taken orders from an old hag like Umbridge?”

“But — last term all you did was tell me to be careful and not take risks —”

“Last year all the evidence was that someone inside Hogwarts was trying to kill you, Harry!” says Sirius impatiently. “This year we know that there’s someone outside Hogwarts who’d like to kill us all, so I think learning to defend yourselves properly is a very good idea!”

“And if we do get expelled?” Hermione asks, a quizzical look on her face.

“Hermione, this whole thing was your idea!” I say, staring at her.

“I know it was. . . . I just wondered what Sirius thought,” she says, shrugging.

“Well, better expelled and able to defend yourselves than sitting safely in school without a clue,” says Sirius.

“Hear, hear,” say Harry, Ron, and I enthusiastically.

“So,” says Sirius, “how are you organizing this group? Where are you meeting?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a problem now,” says Harry. “Dunno where we’re going to be able to go . . .”

“How about the Shrieking Shack?” suggests Sirius.

“Hey, that’s an idea!” says Ron excitedly, but Hermione makes a skeptical noise and all four of us look at her, Sirius’s head turning in the flames.

“Well, Sirius, it’s just that there were only four of you meeting in the Shrieking Shack when you were at school,” says Hermione, “and all of you could transform into animals and I suppose you could all have squeezed under a single Invisibility Cloak if you’d wanted to. But there are thirty of us and none of us is an Animagus, so we wouldn’t need so much an Invisibility Cloak as an Invisibility Marquee —”

“Fair point,” says Sirius, looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with somewhere. . . . There used to be a pretty roomy secret passageway behind that big mirror on the fourth floor, you might have enough space to practice jinxes in there —”

“Fred and George told me it’s blocked,” I say, shaking my head. “Caved in or something.”

“Oh . . .” says Sirius, frowning. “Well, I’ll have a think and get back to —”

He breaks off. His face is suddenly tense, alarmed. He turns sideways, apparently looking into the solid brick wall of the fireplace.

“Sirius?” says Harry anxiously.

But he has vanished. We gape at the flames for a moment, then turn to look at each other.

“Why did he — ?”

Hermione gives a horrified gasp and leaps to her feet, still staring at the fire. I scramble up beside her.

A hand has appeared amongst the flames, groping as though to catch hold of something; a stubby, short-fingered hand covered in ugly old-fashioned rings. . . .

The four of us ran for it; at the door of the girls’ dormitory I look back. Umbridge’s hand is still making snatching movements amongst the flames, as though she knows exactly where Sirius’s hair was moments before and is determined to seize it.

Okay its official now; Hogwarts is becoming more of a prison than a school.


	15. Dumbledore's Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 15- Dumbledore’s Army

 

“Umbridge has been reading your mail, Harry. There’s no other explanation.”

“You think Umbridge attacked Hedwig?” he says, outraged.

“I’m almost certain of it,” says Hermione grimly. “Watch your frog, it’s escaping.”

Harry points his wand at the bullfrog that was hopping hopefully towards the other side of the table — “Accio!” — and it zooms gloomily back into his hand.

Charms is always one of the best lessons in which to enjoy a private chat: There is generally so much movement and activity that the danger of being overheard is very slight. Today, with the room full of croaking bullfrogs and cawing ravens, and with a heavy downpour of rain clattering and pounding against the classroom windows, Harry, Ron, Hermione’s, and my whispered discussion about how Umbridge had nearly caught Sirius goes quite unnoticed.

“I’ve been suspecting this ever since Filch accused you of ordering Dungbombs, because it seemed such a stupid lie,” Hermione whispers. “I mean, once your letter had been read, it would have been quite clear you weren’t ordering them, so you wouldn’t have been in trouble at all — it’s a bit of a feeble joke, isn’t it? But then I thought, what if somebody just wanted an excuse to read your mail? Well then, it would be a perfect way for Umbridge to manage it — tip off Filch, let him do the dirty work and confiscate the letter, then either find a way of stealing it from him or else demand to see it — I don’t think Filch would object, when’s he ever stuck up for a student’s rights? Harry, you’re squashing your frog.”

He is indeed squeezing his bullfrog so tightly its eyes are popping; he replaces it hastily upon the desk.

“Sounds exactly like something a cold blooded snake would do, or in this case toad.” I say silencing my frog in front of me bored. Sometimes I really hate how long it takes other people to get a simple charm down.

“It was a very, very close call last night,” says Hermione. “I just wonder if Umbridge knows how close it was. Silencio!”

The bullfrog on which she is practicing her Silencing Charm is struck dumb mid-croak and glares at her reproachfully. I snicker for it kind of reminds me of Umbridge.

“If she’d caught Snuffles . . .”

Harry finishes the sentence for her.

“He’d probably be back in Azkaban this morning.” He waves his wand without really concentrating; his bullfrog swells like a green balloon and emits a high-pitched whistle.

“Silencio!” says Hermione hastily, pointing her wand at Harry’s frog, which deflates silently before us. “Well, he mustn’t do it again, that’s all. I just don’t know how we’re going to let him know. We can’t send him an owl.”

“I don’t reckon he’ll risk it again,” says Ron. “He’s not stupid, he knows she nearly got him. Silencio!”

The large and ugly raven in front of him lets out a derisive caw.

“Silencio! SILENCIO!”

The raven caws more loudly.

“You’re not doing it right.” I say unhelpfully. Ron glares at me.

“I gathered that Jamie.” He growls.

“It’s the way you’re moving your wand,” says Hermione, watching Ron critically. “You don’t want to wave it, it’s more a sharp jab.”

“Ravens are harder than frogs,” says Ron testily.

“Fine, let’s swap,” says Hermione, seizing Ron’s raven and replacing it with her own fat bullfrog. “Silencio!” The raven continues to open and close its sharp beak, but no sound comes out.

“Very good, Miss Granger!” says Professor Flitwick’s squeaky little voice and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I all jump. “Now, let me see you try, Mr. Weasley!”

“Wha — ? Oh — oh, right,” says Ron, very flustered. “Er — Silencio!”

He jabs at the bullfrog so hard that he pokes it in the eye; the frog gives a deafening croak and leaps off the desk.

Flitwick glances at my silent Frog and beams at me, not even bothering to check to see if my technique is on par.

It comes as no surprise to any of us that Harry and Ron are given additional practice of the Silencing Charm for homework.

We are allowed to remain inside over break due to the downpour outside. We find seats in a noisy and overcrowded classroom on the first floor in which Peeves is floating dreamily up near the chandelier, occasionally blowing an ink pellet at the top of somebody’s head. We have barely sat down when Angelina comes struggling towards us through the groups of gossiping students.

“I’ve got permission!” she says. “To re-form the Quidditch team!”

“Excellent!” says Ron and Harry together.

“Fantastic! I’d even fly in this downpour about now!” I exclaim with a grin.

“Yeah,” says Angelina, beaming. “I went to McGonagall and I think she might have appealed to Dumbledore — anyway, Umbridge had to give in. Ha! So I want you down at the pitch at seven o’clock tonight, all right, because we’ve got to make up time, you realize we’re only three weeks away from our first match?”

She squeezes away from us, narrowly dodges an ink pellet from Peeves, which hits a nearby first year instead, and vanishes from sight.

Ron’s smile slips slightly as he looks out of the window, which is now opaque with hammering rain.

“Hope this clears up . . . What’s up with you, Hermione?”

She too is gazing at the window, but not as though she really sees it. Her eyes are unfocused and there is a frown on her face.

“Just thinking . . .” she says, still frowning at the rain-washed window.

“About Siri . . . Snuffles?” says Harry.

“No . . . not exactly . . .” says Hermione slowly. “More . . . wondering . . . I suppose we’re doing the right thing . . . I think . . . aren’t we?”

Harry, Ron, and I look at each other.

“Well, that clears that up,” says Ron. “It would’ve been really annoying if you hadn’t explained yourself properly.”

Hermione looks at him as though she has only just realized he is there.

“I was just wondering,” she says, her voice stronger now, “whether we’re doing the right thing, starting this Defense Against the Dark Arts group.”

“What!” says Harry and Ron together.

“Hermione, it was your idea in the first place!” says Ron indignantly.

“I know,” says Hermione, twisting her fingers together. “But after talking to Snuffles . . .”

“But he’s all for it!” says Harry.

“Yes,” says Hermione, staring at the window again. “Yes, that’s what made me think maybe it wasn’t a good idea after all . . .”

“Hermione, if we don’t do this then we’ll never be prepared for what’s out there. I don’t know about you but I’d rather stand a fighting chance if I come across Voldemort, or even Augustus.” I say shakily. The three of them look at me with wide eyes for a rarely ever say my uncle’s name aloud willingly.

Peeves floats over us on his stomach, peashooter at the ready; automatically all four of us lift our bags to cover our heads until he passes.

“Let’s get this straight,” says Harry angrily, as we put our bags back on the floor, “Sirius agrees with us, so you don’t think we should do it anymore?”

Hermione looks tense and rather miserable. Now staring at her own hands she says, “Do you honestly trust his judgment?”

“Yes, I do!” says Harry at once. “He’s always given us great advice!”

An ink pellet whizzes past us, striking Katie Bell squarely in the ear. Hermione watchs Katie leap to her feet and start throwing things at Peeves; it is a few moments before Hermione speaks again and it sounds as though she is choosing her words very carefully.

“You don’t think he has become . . . sort of . . . reckless . . . since he’s been cooped up in Grimmauld Place? You don’t think he’s . . . kind of . . . living through us?”

“What d’you mean, ‘living through us’?” Harry retorts. I bite my lip not liking where this conversation is going, but not being able to help kind of agreeing with Hermione.

“I mean . . . well, I think he’d love to be forming secret defense societies right under the nose of someone from the Ministry. . . . I think he’s really frustrated at how little he can do where he is . . . so I think he’s keen to kind of . . . egg us on.”

Ron looks utterly perplexed.

“Sirius is right,” he says, “you do sound just like my mother.”

Hermione bites her lip and does not answer. The bell rings just as Peeves swoops down upon Katie and empties an entire ink bottle over her head. I wince in sympathy for my teammate.

* * *

 

The weather does not improve as the day wears on, so that at seven o’clock that evening, when Harry, Ron, and I go down to the Quidditch pitch for practice, we are soaked through within minutes, our feet slipping and sliding on the sodden grass. The sky is a deep, thundery gray and it is a relief to gain the warmth and light of the changing rooms, even if we know the respite was only temporary. We find Fred and George debating whether to use one of their own Skiving Snackboxes to get out of flying.

“— but I bet she’d know what we’d done,” Fred says out of the corner of his mouth. “If only I hadn’t offered to sell her some Puking Pastilles yesterday —”

“We could try the Fever Fudge,” George mutters, “no one’s seen that yet —”

“Does it work?” inquires Ron hopefully, as the hammering of rain on the roof intensifies and wind howls around the building.

“Well, yeah,” says Fred, “your temperature’ll go right up —”

“— but you get these massive pus-filled boils too,” says George, “and we haven’t worked out how to get rid of them yet.”

“I can’t see any boils,” says Ron, staring at the twins.

“No, well, you wouldn’t,” says Fred darkly, “they’re not in a place we generally display to the public —”

“— but they make sitting on a broom a right pain in the —”

“Thank Merlin I didn’t test those.” I say with a shudder.

“All right, everyone, listen up,” says Angelina loudly, emerging from the Captain’s office. “I know it’s not ideal weather, but there’s a good chance we’ll be playing Slytherin in conditions like this so it’s a good idea to work out how we’re going to cope with them. Harry, didn’t you do something to your glasses to stop the rain fogging them up when we played Hufflepuff in that storm?”

“Hermione did it,” says Harry. He pulls out his wand, taps his glasses and says, “Impervius!”

“I think we all ought to try that,” says Angelina. “If we could just keep the rain off our faces it would really help visibility — all together, come on — Impervius! Okay. Let’s go.”

We all stow our wands back in the inside pockets of our robes, shoulder our brooms, and follow Angelina out of the changing rooms.

We squelch through the deepening mud to the middle of the pitch; visibility is still very poor even with the Impervius Charm; light is fading fast and curtains of rain are sweeping the grounds. This is going to be a grueling nightmare.

“All right, on my whistle,” shouts Angelina.

I push up from the ground spewing mud every which way and search in vain for Katie, and Angelina knowing that there’s a Quaffle out there somewhere for me. This makes dodging the single bludger that we’ve been using neat impossible as well since we can barely see a thing.

I manage to get a grip on the Quaffle as its rifled past my shoulder, but I nearly slip off my broom, and when I fly to the posts, I think I can see a bleary figure of Ron, but it turns out to be the barreling bludger, and I roll out of the way just in time to have it painfully gaze my shoulder.

I fumble the Quaffle, and it falls. I use my now free hand to hold my aching and injured shoulder. This was a poorly thought out idea. Somehow Angelina manages to find me in the murk. She squints at my face, but I guess the pain there is enough for her to see so she blows the whistle.

The practice lasted for an hour, but it felt like a century to me.

She leads her sodden and disgruntled team back into the changing rooms, insisting that the practice was not been a waste of time, though without any real conviction in her voice. In the girl’s changing room, I slowly peel off my Quidditch jumper and hiss at the sight of the massive black and blue bruise taking up my right shoulder and down to some of my chest.

Katie lets a whistle out at the sigh of it. “That’s a right sight Jamie.” She winces. I nod my head groaning when I attempt to move it a little.

Angelina comes trudging in, and takes one look of my shoulder, and lowers her head with a sigh.

“You’re going to want to get that looked at Pendragon. We can’t have you lame for any more practices.” She says gruffly. I nod my head sharply, knowing that her short manner is because she’s upset not angry with me.

I manage to put some slightly warmer clothes back on, though they will just get soaked again. Katie actually had to help me with the jumper, since my movement wasn’t the best at the moment. When I was finally ready I made my way to the boy’s changing rooms to find Harry and Ron. Their faces where worried, and I got the distinct feeling that I had missed something.

“What’s wrong?” I ask lowering my voice in case someone is listening. Harry gives me an anxious look, but its Ron who speaks first.

“Harry’s scar is hurting. He can him…” Ron says refusing to say Voldemort’s name. I raise an eyebrow at that and turn to Harry concerned.

“Are you okay?” I ask him softly.

“I’m fine Jamie. Let’s just get back.” He brushes the whole incident off, and we head back out into the rain, which is really not all that pleasant at all.

We hurry back to the castle as fast as we can without slipping in the mud. Once we push inside the front doors, we shiver water dripping off the three of us making quite the impressive puddle in the entryway of the hall. I shiver and shake off some of the water finally looking up after pushing strands of wet hair out of my eyes to see the shocked and amused eyes of one Ariana Dumbledore.

She’s holding a steaming mug in her hands, and her long blond hair is pulled back into a sloppy bun. She cocks her head at us and gives a lazy grin. “Did you guys leave any rain outside?” She calls. Harry and Ron jump not expecting anyone to be waiting here for us.

“Stalking the halls at night Dumbledore?” I question my teeth chattering, and my shoulder aching with pain.

“No just waiting for some insane Gryffindors. No wonder I wasn’t placed in your house, I would have chickened out of a practice in weather like this…” She says trailing off with narrowed eyes. I look where her gaze is focused and cringe seeing that it’s directed at my right arm which I’m holding to my body.

“What exactly happened out there Pendragon?” She asks coming closer concern starting to fill her eyes, Harry and Ron grimace backing away to the stairs.

“Yeah… we’re going to head on up to the tower. See you later Jamie.” Harry says quickly, as he and Ron hightail it out of the area.

“Chickens!” I cry after them, but soon they’ve vanished out of sight. I heave a sigh and notice that Ariana is directly next to me. “Is that for me?” I ask her gesturing lamely to the cup. That brings the girl back to the conversation at hand.

“I made you tea for I knew you’d be cold after a practice like that. I guess that I will need to bring along my limited healing skills as well.” Ariana says darkly. I shrug my shoulders, wincing at the bad idea.

“What happened Jamie?” She demands sharply.

“Well it’s near impossible to see anything out there so the bludger got a glance off of me.” I say simply. She winces and shakes her head at me.

“Seriously Jamie, you’ve been doing so well a while year free of the hospital wing, and here we go again for yet another trip. Pendragon you’re killing me here.” She groans.

With that we both start walking off to the hospital wing. “So can I have some of that tea now?” I ask hopefully as another shiver runs through me.

“After we get you to the hospital wing Jame. There’s no way you’re getting out of this without a check by Madam Pomfrey.”

I roll my eyes at this, but I can’t keep the grin off of my face at the worry that Ariana shows for me. 

* * *

 

It’s past midnight when I finally manage to drag my weary body back into the Gryffindor common room. My healed shoulder still aches even though it better now. That damn Bludger managed to pop my shoulder right out of its socket. Afterwards Madam Pomfrey made me stick around so that they could perform a checkup of some sort on my newly found magic.

That wasn’t fun in the least, so here I am now drained, and still aching with phantom pain. When I reach the common room I stop taking in the scene in front of me. Harry is passed out at one of the tables by the window, and he’s mumbling. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s jerking every so often. I bite my lip worriedly and hurry over to my friend.

“Harry… come on Harry— it’s just a dream.” I say shaking his shoulder. With a start Harry is jerking up in his seat. He blinks his eyes blearily at me before focusing.

“Jamie… what time is it?” Harry questions, heaving a great yawn.

“I dunno— sometime well past midnight I’d reckon.” I say slumping down in the chair opposite him.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Sore. Madam Pomfrey managed to pop it back in place but she had me test my magic out after. That’s what took so long.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course it is! It’s not like one day I’m going to wake up and find it magically gone! My life is not that easy!” I cry. Harry holds his hands up trying to calm me down.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you like that. I understand what its like to have something you can’t control no matter how much you’d like to.” Harry says gesturing to his scar. I glance at it quickly before focusing back on my friend’s eyes.

“I know you do Harry. I believe that’s why we’re close. We can both understand better than others what its like to be each other. Now, do you want to tell me what was going on in your sleep when I came in?” I ask him pointedly.

Harry groans, and slides down lower in his chair.

“Just my scar— I don’t know how else to put it.” Harry says blankly. Before I can respond to pump the boy wonder for more information a loud crack sounds from the room.

“Harry Potter sir! Jamie Pendragon miss!” comes the squeaky voice of an elf that I hadn’t heard from in a long while.

Dobby the house-elf is standing beside the table on which Hermione has left her half a dozen knitted hats. His large, pointed ears are now sticking out from beneath what looks like all the hats that Hermione has ever knitted; he is wearing one on top of the other, so that his head seems elongated by two or three feet, and on the very topmost bobble sits Hedwig, hooting serenely and obviously cured.

“Dobby volunteered to return Harry Potter’s owl!” says the elf squeakily, with a look of positive adoration on his face. “Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well now, sir! Though you’d best be prepared to take extra good care of her.”

“Why’s that Dobby?” I question him smiling at one of the only elves I’d ever like implicitly.

“Well miss it turns out that Harry Potter sir’s owl here is with child! How exciting!” Dobby says his voice raising in pitch happily. Harry’s eyebrow shoots up and I can’t help but look at the mother owl with something akin to shock.

“H-Hedwig’s pregnant?” Harry stutters. Dobby beams a smile nodding his head furiously causing Hedwig to hoot displeasingly from her perch.

“How? Who is the other…” I trail off realization dawning. I turn to see Harry staring at me with a dumbstruck look on his face.

“Di.” I say simply. Harry shakes his head, but there’s now an amused smile on his face.

“Those two have been rather chummy over the years haven’t they Jamie?” Harry chuckles. I roll my eyes, but smile fondly at the snowy owl.

“Looks like we’re related Potter through marriage of course.” I joke. Harry snickers.

“At least they’ll make cute babies.” He mutters. Hedwig flutters to the arm of Harry’s chair indeed looking bigger than she usually is.

“Thanks Dobby.” Harry says giving the elf a genuine smile and Dobby bows so low to the floor that his nose touches it.

“Anything for Harry sir.” He replies.

Looking back at Dobby, I notice that the elf is also wearing several scarves and innumerable socks, so that his feet look far too big for his body.

“Er . . . have you been taking all the clothes Hermione’s been leaving out?” I ask him.

“Oh no, miss,” says Dobby happily, “Dobby has been taking some for Winky too, sir.”

“Yeah, how is Winky?” asks Harry.

Dobby’s ears droop slightly.

“Winky is still drinking lots, sir,” he says sadly, his enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls, downcast. “She still does not care for clothes, Harry Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower anymore, not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!” Dobby sinks into a deep bow again. “But Harry Potter does not seem happy,” Dobby goes on, straightening up again and looking timidly at Harry. “Dobby has heard him muttering in his sleep. Was Harry Potter having bad dreams?”

“Yeah Potter have you been having bad dreams?” I say turning to face Harry again.

“Not really bad,” says Harry, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “I’ve had worse.”

The elf surveys Harry out of his vast, orblike eyes. Then he says very seriously, his ears drooping, “Dobby wishes he could help Harry Potter, for Harry Potter set Dobby free and Dobby is much, much happier now . . .”

Harry smiles.

“You can’t help me, Dobby, but thanks for the offer . . .”

Harry starts gathering his Potions book up when he stops and stares down at his right hand. I can see the white scars on it. They are similar to the ones that adorn my left hand similar results but different meanings.

“Wait a moment — there is something you can do for me, Dobby,” says Harry slowly.

The elf looks around, beaming.

“Name it, Harry Potter, sir!”

“I need to find a place where twenty-eight people can practice Defense Against the Dark Arts without being discovered by any of the teachers. Especially,” Harry clenches his hand on the book, so that the scars shine pearly white, “Professor Umbridge.”

I look at Harry slightly shocked, but thinking it over in my head, this is actually a really good idea. Dobby is so enamored with Harry that he’d never betray him.

We expect the elf’s smile to vanish, his ears to droop; we expected him to say that this is impossible, or else that he will try, but his hopes are not high. . . . What we were not expecting was for Dobby to give a little skip, his ears waggling happily, and clap his hands together.

“Dobby knows the perfect place, sir!” he says happily. “Dobby heard tell of it from the other house-elves when he came to Hogwarts, sir. It is known by us as the Come and Go Room, sir, or else as the Room of Requirement!”

“Why?” says Harry curiously. My eyes widen in realization of what the elf is suggesting. He’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that before?

“Its genius Harry!” I say happily. Dobby smiles proudly at my compliment.

“Because it is a room that a person can only enter,” says Dobby seriously, “when they have real need of it. Sometimes it is there, and sometimes it is not, but when it appears, it is always equipped for the seeker’s needs. Dobby has used it, sir,” says the elf, dropping his voice and looking guilty, “when Winky has been very drunk. He has hidden her in the Room of Requirement and he has found antidotes to butterbeer there, and a nice elf-sized bed to settle her on while she sleeps it off, sir. . . . And Dobby knows Mr. Filch has found extra cleaning materials there when he has run short, sir, and —”

“— and if you really needed a bathroom,” says Harry, suddenly remembering something Dumbledore said at the Yule Ball the previous Christmas, “would it fill itself with chamber pots?”

“Dobby expects so, sir,” says Dobby, nodding earnestly. “It is a most amazing room, sir.”

“How many people know about it?” says Harry, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Very few, sir. Mostly people stumbles across it when they needs it, sir, but often they never finds it again, for they do not know that it is always there waiting to be called into service, sir.”

“It sounds brilliant,” says Harry, his heart racing. “It sounds perfect, Dobby. When can you show me where it is?”

“Anytime, Harry Potter, sir,” says Dobby, looking delighted at Harry’s enthusiasm. “We could go now, if you like!”

I glance at my watch and see that it’s pushing two in the morning. “Harry…” I say regretfully.

Harry sighs.

“Not tonight, Dobby,” says Harry reluctantly, sinking back into his chair. “This is really important. . . . I don’t want to blow it, it’ll need proper planning. . . . Listen, can you just tell me exactly where this Room of Requirement is and how to get in there?”

Dobby smiles wide and nods his head. I give Harry a smile. It seems like something is finally going right now.

* * *

 

Our robes billow and swirled around us as we splash across the flooded vegetable patch to double Herbology, where we can hardly hear what Professor Sprout is saying over the hammering of raindrops hard as hailstones on the greenhouse roof. Even Ariana is having a hard time understanding her. The afternoon’s Care of Magical Creatures lesson is to be relocated from the storm-swept grounds to a free classroom on the ground floor and, to our intense relief, Angelina seeks out her team at lunch to tell us that Quidditch practice is canceled.

Relief spread through me quickly at that one. “I don’t think I can take another Bludger.” I say uneasily.

“Good,” says Harry quietly, when she tells us, “because we’ve found somewhere to have our first Defense meeting. Tonight, eight o’clock, seventh floor opposite that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by those trolls. Can you tell Katie and Alicia?”

She looks slightly taken aback but promises to tell the others; Harry returns hungrily to his sausages and mash. When he looks up to take a drink of pumpkin juice, he finds Hermione watching him.

“What?” he says thickly.

“Well . . . it’s just that Dobby’s plans aren’t always that safe. Don’t you remember when he lost you all the bones in your arm?”

“This room isn’t just some mad idea of Dobby’s; Dumbledore knows about it too, he mentioned it to me at the Yule Ball.”

Hermione’s expression clears.

“Dumbledore told you about it?”

“Just in passing,” says Harry, shrugging.

“Oh well, that’s all right then,” says Hermione briskly and she raises no more objections.

Together the four of us spend most of the day seeking out those people who have signed their names to the list in the Hog’s Head and telling them where to meet that evening. I get most of the Hufflepuffs because I know Ariana so well. She beamed giddily when I told her the news. Somewhat to Harry’s disappointment, it is Ginny who manages to find Cho Chang and her friend first; however, by the end of dinner he is confident that the news has been passed to every one of the twenty-seven people who had turned up in the Hog’s Head.

At half-past seven Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I leave the Gryffindor common room, Harry clutching a certain piece of aged parchment in his hand. Fifth years are allowed to be out in the corridors until nine o’clock, but all three of us keep looking around nervously as we make our way up to the seventh floor.

“Hold it,” says Harry warningly, unfolding the piece of parchment at the top of the last staircase, tapping it with his wand, and muttering, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

A map of Hogwarts appears upon the blank surface of the parchment. Tiny black moving dots, labeled with names, show where various people are.

“Filch is on the second floor,” says Harry, holding the map close to his eyes and scanning it closely, “and Mrs. Norris is on the fourth.”

“And Umbridge?” says Hermione anxiously.

“In her office,” says Harry, pointing. “Okay, let’s go.”

We hurry along the corridor to the place Dobby has described to Harry and me, a stretch of blank wall opposite an enormous tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy’s foolish attempt to train trolls for the ballet.

“Okay,” says Harry quietly, while a moth-eaten troll pauses in his relentless clubbing of the would-be ballet teacher to watch. “Dobby said to walk past this bit of wall three times, concentrating hard on what we need.”

We do so, turning sharply at the window just beyond the blank stretch of wall, then at the man-size vase on its other side. Ron has screwed up his eyes in concentration, Hermione is whispering something under her breath, Harry’s fists are clenched as he stares ahead of him, and I clear everything from my mind but my plea.

We need somewhere to learn to fight. . . . he thought. Just give us a place to practice . . . somewhere they can’t find us . . .

“Guys,” says Hermione sharply, as we wheel around after our third walk past.

A highly polished door has appeared in the wall. Ron is staring at it, looking slightly wary. Harry reaches out, seized the brass handle, pulls open the door, and leads the way into a spacious room lit with flickering torches like those that illuminate the dungeons eight floors below.

The walls are lined with wooden bookcases, and instead of chairs there are large silk cushions on the floor. A set of shelves at the far end of the room carry a range of instruments such as Sneakoscopes, Secrecy Sensors, and a large, cracked Foe-Glass that I am sure had hung, the previous year, in the fake Moody’s office.

“These will be good when we’re practicing Stunning,” says Ron enthusiastically, prodding one of the cushions with his foot.

“Yeah you’ll need it.” I say with a grin. Ron shoves me with his shoulder, and I return the shove.

“And just look at these books!” says Hermione excitedly, running a finger along the spines of the large leather-bound tomes. “A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions . . . The Dark Arts Outsmarted . . . Self-Defensive Spellwork . . . wow . . .” She looks around at me, her face glowing, and I see that the presence of hundreds of books has finally convinced Hermione that what we are doing is right. “This is wonderful, there’s everything we need here!”

And without further ado she slides Jinxes for the Jinxed from its shelf, sinks onto the nearest cushion, and begins to read. I roll my eyes at my best friend. Leave it to Hermione to start reading after not even five minutes in here.

There is a gentle knock on the door. I look around; Ginny, Neville, Lavender, Parvati, and Dean have arrived.

“Whoa,” says Dean, staring around, impressed. “What is this place?”

Harry begins to explain, but before he has finished more people have arrived, and he has to start all over again.

Ariana arrives with Luka and her Hufflepuff friends, and once she’s taken everything in, she practically skips over to me in excitement. “This is brilliant Pendragon!” She exclaims tackling me in a hug.

By the time eight o’clock arrives, every cushion is occupied. Harry moves across to the door and turns the key protruding from the lock; it clicks in a satisfyingly loud way and everybody falls silent, looking at him. Hermione carefully marks her page of Jinxes for the Jinxed and sets the book aside.

“Well,” says Harry, slightly nervously. “This is the place we’ve found for practices, and you’ve — er — obviously found it okay —”

“It’s fantastic!” says Cho, and several people murmur their agreement. I grin watching the heat spread to Harry’s cheeks.

“It’s bizarre,” says Fred, frowning around at it. “We once hid from Filch in here, remember, George? But it was just a broom cupboard then . . .”

“Hey, Harry, what’s this stuff?” asks Dean from the rear of the room, indicating the Sneakoscopes and the Foe-Glass.

“Dark Detectors,” says Harry, stepping between the cushions to reach them. “Basically they all show when Dark wizards or enemies are around, but you don’t want to rely on them too much, they can be fooled . . .”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about the sort of stuff we ought to do first and — er —” He notices a raised hand. “What, Hermione?”

“I think we ought to elect a leader,” says Hermione.

“Harry’s leader,” says Cho at once, looking at Hermione as though she is mad, and Harry starts to look like a tomato.

“Yes, but I think we ought to vote on it properly,” says Hermione, unperturbed. “It makes it formal and it gives him authority. So — everyone who thinks Harry ought to be our leader?”

Everybody puts up their hands, even Zacharias Smith, though he does it very halfheartedly.

“Er — right, thanks,” says Harry still red faced. “And — what, Hermione?”

“I also think we ought to have a name,” she says brightly, her hand still in the air. “It would promote a feeling of team spirit and unity, don’t you think?”

“Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?” says Angelina hopefully.

“Or the Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group?” suggests Fred.

“No More Disgusting Toads Coalition.” I say laughing. Fred and George join in with me on that. Ginny shakes her head a me with a twinkle in her eye, and I know that I’ve just given the younger girl an idea.

“I was thinking,” says Hermione, frowning at Fred and me, “more of a name that didn’t tell everyone what we were up to, so we can refer to it safely outside meetings.”

“There’s no fun in that though.” I mutter quietly, and Ariana bumps my shoulder, and I smile back at her.

“The Defense Association?” says Cho. “The D.A. for short, so nobody knows what we’re talking about?”

“Yeah, the D.A.’s good,” says Ginny. “Only let’s make it stand for Dumbledore’s Army because that’s the Ministry’s worst fear, isn’t it?”

“Brilliant Ginny!” I say, and she grins back at me. Merlin its probably not a good idea to leave the two of us alone for too long.

There is a good deal of appreciative murmuring and laughter at this.

“All in favor of the D.A.?” says Hermione bossily, kneeling up on her cushion to count. “That’s a majority — motion passed!”

She pins the piece of paper with all of our names on it on the wall and writes DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY across the top in large letters.

“Right,” says Harry, when she has sat down again, “shall we get practicing then? I was thinking, the first thing we should do is Expelliarmus, you know, the Disarming Charm. I know it’s pretty basic but I’ve found it really useful —”

“Oh please,” says Zacharias Smith, rolling his eyes and folding his arms. “I don’t think Expelliarmus is exactly going to help us against You-Know-Who, do you?”

“I’ve used it against him,” says Harry quietly. “It saved my life last June.”

Smith opens his mouth stupidly. The rest of the room is very quiet. Ariana grabs my hand and squeezes it hard when she can feel me shaking beside her.

“But if you think it’s beneath you, you can leave,” Harry says. Oh please say that it is. I really don’t want you in the group anymore.

Smith does not move. Nor does anybody else.

“Okay,” says Harry, “I reckon we should all divide into pairs and practice.”

“Partner Pendragon?” Ariana asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Only if you think you can handle it Dumbledore.” I banter. She rolls her eyes and we move a little father away from everyone else so that we can practice.

To say that the practicing between the two of us was intense is a joke. We are both good at disarming, so it became who could do it flashier than the other. It was just too much fun. Finally when we stop for a break Ariana and I look over at Harry and Neville just as Neville disarms Harry.

“Great job Neville.” I call out to him. Ariana glances at me sideways.

“You really are something Jame.” She says softly. I turn my gaze back to her and shrug.

“I’m really not all that much Ari, just another girl trying to make it in the world. Harry’s the really extraordinary person here.” I say my gaze following my friend as he moves around the room correcting other member’s form.

“You really admire him don’t you?”

“’Course. He’s one of the greatest people I’ve ever known even if he’s a little too thick for his own good. He’ll get there though. I have faith.” I say with a grin. She shakes her head at me.

“I can’t believe that you see so little in yourself. You’re pretty amazing you know.” She tells me. I feel heat race to my cheeks and I glance down at me feet scuffing them against the floor.

“So are you.” I mutter embarrassedly.

I return my focus to the group to look at their progress.

Fred and George are trying to disarm an unknowing Smith, and that makes me laugh when Harry catches them.

Ginny is teamed with Michael Corner; she is doing very well, whereas Michael is either very bad or unwilling to jinx her. Ernie Macmillan is flourishing his wand unnecessarily, giving his partner time to get in under his guard; the Creevey brothers are enthusiastic but erratic and mainly responsible for all the books leaping off the shelves around them. Luna Lovegood is similarly patchy, occasionally sending Justin Finch-Fletchley’s wand spinning out of his hand, at other times merely causing his hair to stand on end.

“Okay, stop!” Harry shouts. “Stop! STOP!”

Suddenly there’s a piercing whistle, and everyone jumps and drops their wands down.

“That wasn’t bad,” says Harry, “but there’s definite room for improvement.” Zacharias Smith glares at him. “Let’s try again . . .”

Ariana I roll our eyes, and we go back to disarming each other for a while. We stop when I hear a loud laugh from my brother. He was paired up with Terry Boot and he had just caused Terry’s wand to go flying to the very top of the bookcase. Now he has to try and climb up there to get it back.

“How’s he doing?” I ask Ariana worriedly. She glances at Luka and gives me an easy smile.

“He’s fine Jamie. There’s honestly no need to worry about Luka. He’s getting much more relaxed now. He hasn’t gotten on Umbridge’s bad side as well if that’s what you’re worried about. He wants to snap at her in class a lot, but I remind him that he wouldn’t be helping you if he did so.” Ariana tells me. I nod grateful for the update from the girl.

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione calls from the other end of the room, “have you checked the time?”

I watch as he looks down at his watch and receives a shock — it is already ten past nine, which means we need to get back to their common rooms immediately or risk being caught and punished by Filch for being out-of-bounds. He blows his whistle; everybody stops shouting, “Expelliarmus!” and the last couple of wands clatter to the floor.

“Well, that was pretty good,” says Harry, “but we’ve overrun, we’d better leave it here. Same time, same place next week?”

“Sooner!” says Dean Thomas eagerly and many people nod in agreement.

Angelina, however, says quickly, “The Quidditch season’s about to start, we need team practices too!”

“Let’s say next Wednesday night, then,” says Harry, “and we can decide on additional meetings then. . . . Come on, we’d better get going . . .”

He pulls out the Marauder’s Map again and checks it carefully for signs of teachers on the seventh floor. He lets us all leave in threes and fours, watching their tiny dots anxiously to see that they return safely to their dormitories: the Hufflepuffs to the basement corridor that also leads to the kitchens, the Ravenclaws to a tower on the west side of the castle, and the Gryffindors along the corridor to the seventh floor and the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“That was really, really good, Harry,” says Hermione, when finally it is just her, Harry, Ron, and me left.

“Yeah, it was!” says Ron enthusiastically, as we slip out of the door and watch it melt back into stone behind us. “Did you see me disarm Hermione, Harry?”

“Only once,” says Hermione, stung. “I got you loads more than you got me —”

“I did not only get you once, I got you at least three times —”

“Well, if you’re counting the one where you tripped over your own feet and knocked the wand out of my hand —”

I chuckle shaking my head at the two of them. They argue all the way back to the common room, but Harry is not listening obviously distracted. I had a great time as well, but my thoughts kept going back to everything that was changing and why it was that I found myself saddened after Ariana had squeezed my hand in farewell before slipping out of the room and to her dormitory.


	16. The Lion and the Serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 16- The Lion and the Serpent

 

I feel as though I am carrying some kind of talisman inside my chest over the following two weeks, a glowing secret that supports me through Umbridge’s classes and even makes it possible for me to smile blandly as I look into her horrible bulging eyes. It seems that Harry seems the same as there hasn’t been an outburst between the two of us. The D.A. ire resisting her under her very nose, doing the very thing that she and the Ministry most fear, and whenever I am supposed to be reading Wilbert Slinkhard’s book during her lessons I dwell instead on satisfying memories of our most recent meetings, remembering how Neville had successfully disarmed Hermione, how Colin Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx after three meetings’ hard effort, how Parvati Patil had produced such a good Reductor Curse that she had reduced the table carrying all the Sneakoscopes to dust.

Well and mostly at how much time Ariana Dumbledore and I were getting to spend together. Hermione had been poking fun at me a lot for my slight resistance at splitting up partners with her to work with someone else, but by the third time it comes round, I honestly can’t say no to Harry’s pleading gaze.

We are finding it almost impossible to fix a regular night of the week for D.A. meetings, as we have to accommodate three separate Quidditch teams’ practices, which are often rearranged depending on the weather conditions; but Harry is not sorry about this, he has a feeling that it is probably better to keep the timing of our meetings unpredictable. If anyone is watching us, it would be hard to make out a pattern.

Hermione soon devises a very clever method of communicating the time and date of the next meeting to all the members in case we need to change it at short notice, because it will look so suspicious if people from different Houses are seen crossing the Great Hall to talk to each other too often. She gives each of the members of the D.A. a fake Galleon (Ron becomes very excited when he sees the basket at first, convinced that she is actually giving out gold).

“You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?” Hermione says, holding one up for examination at the end of our fourth meeting. The coin gleams fat and yellow in the light from the torches. “On real Galleons that’s just a serial number referring to the goblin who cast the coin. On these fake coins, though, the numbers will change to reflect the time and date of the next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the date changes, so if you’re carrying them in a pocket you’ll be able to feel them. We take one each, and when Harry sets the date of the next meeting he’ll change the numbers on his coin, and because Jamie and I have put a Protean Charm on them, they’ll all change to mimic his.”

A blank silence greets Hermione’s words. She looks around at all the faces upturned to her, rather disconcerted. I shift nervously from beside her since she demanded that I pitch the idea with her since I helped her with the work.

“Well — I thought it was a good idea,” she says uncertainly, “I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to turn out our pockets, there’s nothing fishy about carrying a Galleon, is there? But . . . well, if you don’t want to use them . . .”

“You two can do a Protean Charm?” says Terry Boot.

“She just said that didn’t she?” I say a little sharply.

“Yes,” says Hermione.

“But that’s . . . that’s N.E.W.T. standard, that is,” he says weakly.

“Oh,” says Hermione, trying to look modest while I just shrug my shoulders. “Oh . . . well . . . yes, I suppose it is . . .”

“How come you’re not in Ravenclaw?” he demands, staring at Hermione with something close to wonder. “With brains like yours?”

“Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting me in Ravenclaw during my Sorting,” says Hermione brightly, “but it decided on Gryffindor in the end. So does that mean we’re using the Galleons?”

There is a murmur of assent and everybody moves forward to collect one from the basket. Harry looks sideways at Hermione and me.

“You know what these remind me of?” Harry says.

“No, what’s that?” I ask him.

“The Death Eaters’ scars. Voldemort touches one of them, and all their scars burn, and they know they’ve got to join him.”

“Well . . . yes,” says Hermione quietly. “That is where I got the idea . . . but you’ll notice I decided to engrave the date on bits of metal rather than on our members’ skin . . .”

“Yeah . . . I prefer your way,” says Harry, grinning, as he slips his Galleon into his pocket. “I suppose the only danger with these is that we might accidentally spend them.”

“Fat chance,” says Ron, who is examining his own fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air. “I haven’t got any real Galleons to confuse it with.”

“Don’t worry Ron.” I tell him with a pat on the back after flipping my own coin in the air before catching it.

As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, draws nearer, our D.A. meetings are put on hold because Angelina insists on almost daily practices. The fact that the Quidditch Cup has not been held for so long adds considerably to the interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming game. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are taking a lively interest in the outcome, for they, of course, will be playing both teams over the coming year; and the Heads of House of the competing teams, though they attempted to disguise it under a decent pretense of sportsmanship, are determined to see their side’s victory. I realize how much Professor McGonagall cares about beating Slytherin when she abstains from giving us homework in the week leading up to the match.

Not that I’m complaining of course.

“I think you’ve got enough to be getting on with at the moment,” she says loftily. Nobody can quite believe their ears until she looks directly at Harry, Ron, and me and says grimly, “I’ve become accustomed to seeing the Quidditch Cup in my study, boys, and I really don’t want to have to hand it over to Professor Snape, so use the extra time to practice, won’t you?”

“’Course Professor.” I say with a wide grin.

Snape is no less obviously partisan: He books the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often that the Gryffindors have difficulty getting on it to play. He is also turning a deaf ear to the many reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Katie Bell turns up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so thick and fast that they obscure her vision and obstruct her mouth, Snape insists that she must have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself and refuses to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who insist that they saw the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while she worked in the library.

I feel optimistic about Gryffindor’s chances; we have, after all, never lost to Malfoy’s team. Admittedly Ron is still not performing to Wood’s standard, but he is working extremely hard to improve. His greatest weakness is a tendency to lose confidence when he makes a blunder; if he lets in one goal he becomes flustered and is therefore likely to miss more. On the other hand, I have seen Ron make some truly spectacular saves when he is on form: During one memorable practice, he hung one-handed from his broom and kicked the Quaffle so hard away from the goal hoop that it soars the length of the pitch and through the center hoop at the other end.

I have to admit that was pretty cool even though I had to slide upside down on my broom in order to avoid being hit.

The rest of the team feels this save compares favorably with one made recently by Barry Ryan, the Irish International Keeper, against Poland’s top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski. Even Fred said that Ron might yet make him and George proud, and that they are seriously considering admitting that he is related to them, something he assures Ron they had been trying to deny for four years.

The only thing really worrying Harry and me was how much Ron is allowing the tactics of the Slytherin team to upset him before we even get onto the pitch. Harry, and I of course, have endured their snide comments for more than four years, so whispers of, “Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington’s sworn to knock you off your broom on Saturday,” far from chilling Harry’s blood, makes him laugh. “Warrington’s aim’s so pathetic I’d be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me,” he retorts, which makes Ron, Hermione, and I laugh and wipes the smirk off Pansy Parkinson’s face.

“Don’t worry Parkinson even if Malfoy does by chance manage to win he’s still not going to go out with you.” I say doing my best ‘oh darn’ face.

But Ron has never endured a relentless campaign of insults, jeers, and intimidation. When Slytherins, some of them seventh years and considerably larger than he is, mutter as they pass in the corridors, “Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?” he does not laugh, but turns a delicate shade of green. When Draco Malfoy imitates Ron dropping the Quaffle (which he does whenever they are within sight of each other), Ron’s ears glow red and his hands shake so badly that he is likely to drop whatever he is holding at the time too.

“Don’t worry Ron it takes a lot to land someone in the hospital wing. Harry and I just have crappy circumstances.” I point out with a shrug. He doesn’t look too reassured though.

October extinguishes itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrives, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bite at exposed hands and faces. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turns a pale, pearly gray, the mountains around Hogwarts become snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle drops so far that many students wear their thick protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons.

The morning of the match dawns bright and cold. I had actually managed to sleep much better than I usually do before upcoming matches. It might be that I really wasn’t at all afraid of the Slytherins anymore. Growing older has made me realize that bullies like them aren’t worth my time. All I have to do is outfox them.

I chat happily with Ginny down in the common room as we make our way to breakfast. The Great Hall is buzzing with high energy and many excited voices. As we pass the Slytherin table there is an upsurge of noise; I look around and see that nearly everyone there is wearing, in addition to the usual green-and-silver scarves and hats, silver badges in the shape of what seems to be crowns. For some reason many of them give me snickers. I try to see what is written on the badges as we walk by, but I am too concerned to focused on the Hufflepuff that is lounging next to the Gryffindor table.

“Lost again Dumbledore?” I question pulling up along side her. Ginny rolls her eyes at the two of us, and goes down to the table a little bit to sit down.

“Just come to give you a proper send off Pendragon, and a word of wisdom. Don’t you dare fall off your broom, for I am not going to be pleased if I have to make another trip to the hospital wing with you.” She says her expressions fierce as she pokes a finger at me.

I grin at her slowly. “I can’t promise much, but I will promise that I will try my hardest.” I tell her. She huffs crossing her arms over her chest and scrunching up her nose. Her head cocks just the right way for me to see the painted lion on her cheek and my jersey number under it.

I find my grin becoming wider at the appreciation that I feel for her doing something like that every time that we have a game. She’s not even a Gryffindor yet she supports me just like one.

“I guess that’s good enough for now. Just remember that Pendragon, I don’t want to have to go and hex some Slytherin, that would totally ruin the Hufflepuff reputation.” She says with a nod. I sputter a laugh and shake my head at her.

“I’m sorry Ariana but the moment you were put into that house, my opinion of it changed. I have no earthly desire to ever mess with it.” I say with a solemn shake of my head. The smile that erupts onto her face is brilliant.

Before I know what’s happening I have an armful of blond Hufflepuff in my arms, and I feel warm soft lips press into my left cheek. Instantly heat flares in me, and she pulls away quickly. “You say the sweetest things Jame. I’m definitely rooting for your team to win now.” With that she hurries back off to the Hufflepuff table.

I’m left standing there with what’s sure to be a stupid look on my face, as my insides do all sorts of twisting and fluttering. “You know George I think that my favorite look on Jamie’s face don’t you think?” Fred’s voice suddenly pierces through my shocked fog.

“I don’t know Fred I quite liked that look on her face right before she passed out when she realized we slipped her a Fainting Fancy.” George snickers. I glare at the redheaded twins. That just makes the pair of them laugh harder. Hermione rolls her eyes as she finally makes it to the table and I sit down with her.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that Jamie.” She whispers to me quietly when I’m about to bite into a piece of toast. The subsequent hacking fit that I have afterwards is not helpful as well.

“Geez Mione you’re trying to do the Slytherin’s work for them by killing me before I even get on my broom.” I cough. Thankfully Harry and a very pale looking Ron arrive at the table before the conversation can get any more awkward.

Ginny scoots her bowl over on my other side so that I’m flanked by either girl and facing the boys.

“I must’ve been mental to do this,” Ron says in a croaky whisper. “Mental.”

“Don’t be thick,” says Harry firmly, passing him a choice of cereals. “You’re going to be fine. It’s normal to be nervous.”

“I’m rubbish,” croaks Ron. “I’m lousy. I can’t play to save my life. What was I thinking?”

“Stop it Ron.” I tell him.

“Get a grip,” says Harry sternly. “Look at that save you made with your foot the other day, even Fred and George said it was brilliant —”

Ron turns a tortured face to Harry.

“That was an accident,” he whispers miserably. “I didn’t mean to do it — I slipped off my broom when none of you were looking and I was trying to get back on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident.”

I grimace at that admission. This could turn out worse than I thought.

“Well,” says Harry, recovering quickly from this unpleasant surprise, “a few more accidents like that and the game’s in the bag, isn’t it?”

“How’re you feeling?” Ginny asks Ron finally, who is now staring into the dregs of milk at the bottom of his empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering attempting to drown himself in them.

“He’s just nervous,” says Harry.

“We’ve all felt it before.” I say trying to help him out.

“Well, that’s a good sign, I never feel you perform as well in exams if you’re not a bit nervous,” says Hermione heartily.

“Hello,” says a vague and dreamy voice from behind us. I look up: Luna Lovegood has drifted over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people are staring at her and a few openly laugh and point; she has managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion’s head, which is perched precariously on her head.

“I’m supporting Gryffindor,” says Luna, pointing unnecessarily at her hat. “Look what it does . . .”

She reaches up and taps the hat with her wand. It opens its mouth wide and gives an extremely realistic roar that makes everyone in the vicinity jump.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” says Luna happily. “I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, you know, but there wasn’t time. Anyway . . . good luck, Ronald!”

I stare after it in wonder. “I want one.” I declare instantly. Ginny laughs from beside me.

“What? We could put it near the door in our room, and ward off unwanted visitors.” I explain with a pout. Ginny stops mid laugh actually considering the idea.

She drifts away. We have not quite recovered from the shock of Luna’s hat before Angelina comes hurrying towards us, accompanied by Katie, whose eyebrows have mercifully been returned to normal by Madam Pomfrey.

“When you’re ready,” she says, “we’re going to go straight down to the pitch, check out conditions and change.”

“We’ll be there in a bit,” Harry assures her. “Ron’s just got to have some breakfast.”

“Yep, can’t play on an empty stomach.” I say slapping my hand down on my belly to make a point. Angelina rolls her eyes at me, but I can see the small smile on her face.

It becomes clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron is not capable of eating anything more and Harry thinks it best to get him down to the changing rooms. As we rise from the table, Hermione gets up too, and taking Harry’s arm and mine, she draws us to one side.

“Don’t let Ron see what’s on those Slytherins’ badges,” she whispers urgently.

Harry and I look questioningly at her, but she shakes her head warningly; Ron has just ambled over to us, looking lost and desperate.

“Good luck, Ron,” says Hermione, standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek. “And you, Harry, Jamie —”

I raise my eyebrow at that blatant show of affection and Hermione turns her gaze away from me.

Ron seems to come to himself slightly as we walk back across the Great Hall. He touches the spot on his face where Hermione has kissed him, looking puzzled, as though he is not quite sure what had just happened. He seems too distracted to notice much around him, but Harry and I cast a curious glance at the crown-shaped badges as we pass the Slytherin table, and this time I make out the words etched onto them: WEASLEY IS OUR KING.

I grit my jaw and flex my hands trying to stop the pressure of magic that wants to break through.

We hurry Ron across the entrance hall, down the stone steps, and out into the icy air.

The frosty grass crunches under our feet as we hurry down the sloping lawns towards the stadium. There is no wind at all and the sky is a uniform pearly white, which means that visibility will be good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the eyes. Harry points out these encouraging factors to Ron as we walk, but I am not sure that Ron is listening.

I’m finally beginning to get my magic back under control and into the cage where it belongs.

Angelina has changed already and is talking to the rest of the team when we enter. Harry, Ron, and I pull on our robes (Ron attempts to do his up back-to-front for several minutes before Katie takes pity on him and goes to help) and then sits down to listen to the pre-match talk while the babble of voices outside grows steadily louder as the crowd comes pouring out of the castle towards the pitch.

“Okay, I’ve only just found out the final lineup for Slytherin,” says Angelina, consulting a piece of parchment. “Last year’s Beaters, Derrick and Bole, have left now, but it looks as though Montague’s replaced them with the usual gorillas, rather than anyone who can fly particularly well. They’re two blokes called Crabbe and Goyle, I don’t know much about them —”

“We do,” say Harry, Ron, and I together.

“Well, they don’t look bright enough to tell one end of a broom from another,” says Angelina, pocketing her parchment, “but then I was always surprised Derrick and Bole managed to find their way onto the pitch without signposts.”

“Crabbe and Goyle are in the same mold,” Harry assures her. I stew in my own head worried about having to keep an extra close eye out for bludgers this game.

We can hear hundreds of footsteps mounting the banked benches of the spectators’ stands now. Some people are singing, though I can not make out the words. I am starting to feel nervous, but I know my butterflies are as nothing to Ron’s, who is clutching his stomach and staring straight ahead again, his jaw set and his complexion pale gray.

“It’s time,” says Angelina in a hushed voice, looking at her watch. “C’mon everyone . . . good luck.”

“Time to make serpent stew.” I chuckle lightly catching a smile from the twins. Yeah, I’m making bad jokes, I’m definitely nervous.

The team rises, shoulders our brooms, and marches in single file out of the changing room and into the dazzling sky. A roar of sound greets us in which I can still hear singing, though it is muffled by the cheers and whistles.

The Slytherin team is standing waiting for us. They too are wearing those silver crown-shaped badges. The new captain, Montague, is built along the same lines as Harry describes his cousin Dudley, with massive forearms like hairy hams. Behind him lurks Crabbe and Goyle, almost as large, blinking stupidly, swinging their new Beaters’ bats. Malfoy stands to one side, the sunlight gleaming on his white-blond head. He catches my eye and smirks, tapping the crown-shaped badge on his chest.

I roll my eyes at him severely uninterested in his tiny pin.

“Captains shake hands,” orders the umpire, Madam Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reach each other. I can tell that Montague is trying to crush Angelina’s fingers, though she does not wince. “Mount your brooms . . .”

Madam Hooch places her whistle in her mouth and blows.

The balls are released and the fourteen players shoot upward; out of the corner of my eye I see Ron streak off toward the goal hoops. I instantly set off to playing height and try to shake off my Slytherin chaser, and get open for a pass.

“And it’s Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I’ve been saying it for years but she still won’t go out with me —”

“JORDAN!” yells Professor McGonagall.

“Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest — and she’s ducked Warrington, she’s passed Montague, she’s — ouch — been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe. . . . Montague catches the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch and — nice Bludger there from George Weasley, that’s a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Jamie Pendragon and Pendragon’s away —”

I tune out his commentary as I focus on dodging a bludger and rolling around a player, kicking up the speed a notch on my broom. Why can’t it go any faster?

“— dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger — close call, Jamie — and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what’s that they’re singing?”

And as Lee pauses to listen the song rises loud and clear from the sea of green and silver in the Slytherin section of the stands:

Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That’s why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our King.

 

Weasley was born in a bin,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley will make sure we win,

Weasley is our King.

 

I throw the Quaffle hard. “— and Jamie passes back to Angelina!” Lee shouts, and my insides boil at what I just heard, I know Lee is trying to drown out the sound of the singing. “Come on now, Angelina — looks like she’s got just the Keeper to beat! — SHE SHOOTS — SHE — aaaah . . .”

Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, has saved the goal; he throws the Quaffle to Warrington who speeds off with it, zigzagging in between Katie and me (not before almost knocking me off my broom); the singing from below grows louder and louder as he draws nearer and nearer Ron —

Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King.

 

“— and it’s Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington heading for goal, he’s out of Bludger range with just the Keeper ahead —”

A great swell of song rises from the Slytherin stands below:

 

Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring . . .

 

“— so it’s the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, Weasley, brother of Beaters, Fred and George, and a promising new talent on the team — come on, Ron!”

But the scream of delight comes from the Slytherin end: Ron dived wildly, his arms wide, and the Quaffle soared between them, straight through Ron’s central hoop.

“Slytherin score!” comes Lee’s voice amid the cheering and booing from the crowds below. “So that’s ten-nil to Slytherin — bad luck, Ron . . .”

The Slytherins sing even louder:

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN . . .

 

“— and Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie Bell tanking up the pitch —” cries Lee valiantly, though the singing is now so deafening that he can hardly make himself heard above it. I speed off flanking Katie to watch her back, and roughly checking a chaser that comes in to knock her off.

 

WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN,

WEASLEY IS OUR KING . . .

 

“Harry, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” screams Angelina suddenly, soaring past him to keep up with Katie and me. “GET GOING!”

So I guess that Harry is distracted by the singing while I work my arse off. Yeah I guess that sounds about right.

“— and it’s Warrington again,” bellows Lee, “who passes to Pucey, Pucey’s off past Bell, come on now Angelina, you can take him — turns out you can’t — but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley, I mean, George Weasley, oh who cares, one of them anyway, and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Jamie Pendragon — er — drops it too — so that’s Montague with the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle, and he’s off up the pitch, come on now Gryffindor, block him!”

My anger at the Slytherins and the aching in my now bruised sides are fighting for dominance along side the stupid song.

“— and Pucey’s dodged Jamie again, and he’s heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!”

I look away and fight the groan that the rest of the stadium minus the cheers the Slytherins are emitting. I immediately take possession of the Quaffle and start my drive to the Slytherin goal posts.

I end up getting plowed into my Goyle which infuriates me to no end, though Fred knocks a bludger into him in kind for that. Slytherin manages to score two more goals despite my best efforts. We’re just getting plowed into literally out here.

“— and Katie Bell of Gryffindor dodges Pucey, ducks Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she throws to Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she’s past Warrington, she’s heading for goal, come on now Angelina — GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It’s forty–ten, forty–ten to Slytherin and Pucey has the Quaffle . . .”

I pump my fist and cheer on my teammate who has finally managed to score. Maybe we can change this now.

“— Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to Montague, Montague back to Pucey — Johnson intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to Pendragon, this looks good — I mean bad — Pendragon’s hit by a Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it’s Pucey in possession again . . . oh bloody hell Pendragon’s falling—”

You know that sensation when you feel like you’ve done this before? Déjà vu? Well I have that at the moment, and hit hurts like hell. The ground is streaking towards me faster, and all I can think of is Ariana warning me not to end up in hospital wing again. With that though a surge of energy tugs from my chest, and I cast my hands out in front of me, both palms blazing blue.

Before I hit the ground, I’m slowed enough to not break every bone in my body, just enough to knock the wind out of me, and wish that I’d never been born. I guess that’s a good trade off? I’m not quite sure.

I hear a groan, and realize that it’s coming from me. That’s not before I hear a giant uproar of sound and another painful groan not too far from me. I open my eyes to slits and turn my head painfully to see Harry laying on the ground a few feet from me. Figures are descending from the sky after us.

“Couldn’t keep you away huh Potter.” I moan. Harry sputters a cough, and wheezes.

“Can’t let you have all the fun.” He replies. If I could laugh, I would have. Slowly Harry and I make our way to our feet groaning as bruises express themselves painfully.

Angelina lands next to us with a panicked worried voice. “Are you two all right?”

“’Course I am,” says Harry grimly.

“Never been better. Nothing a butterbeer won’t cure.” I respond wincing. Madam Hooch is zooming towards one of the Slytherin players above us, though I can not see who it is at this angle.

“It was that thug, Crabbe,” says Angelina angrily. “He whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you’d got the Snitch, Goyle did yours Jamie — but we won, guys, we won!”

I hear a snort from behind me and turn around, Harry is still holding the Snitch tightly in his hand: Draco Malfoy has landed close by; white-faced with fury, he is still managing to sneer.

“Saved Weasley’s neck, haven’t you?” he says to Harry. “I’ve never seen a worse Keeper . . . but then he was born in a bin. . . . Did you like my lyrics, Potter?”

Harry does not answer; he turns away to meet the rest of the team who are now landing one by one, yelling and punching the air in triumph, all except Ron, who has dismounted from his broom over by the goalposts and is making his way slowly back to the changing rooms alone. I on the other hand glare at him, and try to keep my anger in check. How dare he talk about the Weasleys so?

“We wanted to write another couple of verses!” Malfoy calls, as Katie and Angelina hug Harry, then they pull my into one to distract me. “But we couldn’t find rhymes for fat and ugly — we wanted to sing about his mother, see —”

That’s it that boy doesn’t deserve to even have a tongue. My entire right arm catches ablaze with eerie blue fire, but before anyone can even jump back strong hands are on me, and pulling me backwards into an embrace. My brain malfunctions for a moment before relaxing backwards into the soothing grip of Ariana. I didn’t even see her approaching.

“There, there Jamie. He’s not worth it. I’m here and you’re right here with me. There’s no need for Malfoy to get on your nerves.” She coos though I detect a hard edge to her voice. The fire on my arm extinguishes like all the air was sucked away, and Malfoy’s eyes hold a terrified glint to them.

“Talk about sour grapes,” says Angelina, casting Malfoy a disgusted look.

“— we couldn’t fit in useless loser either — for his father, you know —”

I don’t understand how he could still go on taunting us after seeing my magic and what I could potentially do.

Fred and George have realized what Malfoy is talking about. Halfway through shaking Harry’s hand they stiffen, looking around at Malfoy.

“Leave it,” says Angelina at once, taking Fred by the arm. “Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he’s just sore he lost, the jumped-up little —”

“— but you like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter?” says Malfoy, sneering. “Spend holidays there and everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by Muggles even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay, can’t believe the Pendragons live there —”

“Don’t listen to him Jamie. Focus on me, I’m all that matters at the moment. Feel me with you, mirror my breathing.”

Harry grabs hold of George; meanwhile it is taking the combined efforts of Angelina, and Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who is laughing openly. Harry looked around for Madam Hooch, but she is still berating Crabbe for his illegal Bludger attack.

“Or perhaps,” says Malfoy, leering as he backs away, “you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it —”

Oh he did not. The anger literally vibrates through me, but Ariana’s hold on me tightens, trapping me to her, and calming me some despite my best efforts.

Harry releases George, a second later both of them are sprinting at Malfoy. They have completely forgotten the fact that all the teachers are watching. With no time to draw out his wand, Harry merely draws back the fist clutching the Snitch and sinks it as hard as he can into Malfoy’s stomach —

This really isn’t going to end well, but a large part of me is pleased that Malfoy is finally going to get the shit kicked out of him. Another large part of me wishes that I was the one doing it, but I’m otherwise engaged, half listening to Ariana’s calming words.

“Harry! HARRY! GEORGE! NO!”

Angelina and Katie are screaming, Malfoy’s yelling, George’s swearing, a whistle blowing, and the bellowing of the crowd around us, but Harry does not seem to care, not until somebody in the vicinity yells “IMPEDIMENTA!” and only when he is knocked over backwards by the force of the spell does he abandon the attempt to punch every inch of Malfoy he can reach. . . .

“What do you think you’re doing?” screams Madam Hooch, as Harry leaps to his feet again; it is she who hit him with the Impediment Jinx. She is holding her whistle in one hand and a wand in the other, her broom lies abandoned several feet away.  Malfoy is curled up on the ground, whimpering and moaning, his nose bloody; George is sporting a swollen lip; Fred is still being forcibly restrained by two of the three Chasers, and Crabbe is cackling in the background. “I’ve never seen behavior like it — back up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your Head of House’s office! Go! Now!”

I watch in shock as Harry and George march off the pitch and on up to the castle. After a long moment Ariana finally releases me from her arms. I slump forward as my injuries finally make themselves known again by throbbing painfully. Chaos is still going on all around us, but I feel too drained to focus on any of it.

“I’m sorry.” I say softly.

“What for?” Ariana’s distracted voice says. I turn around slowly to take in the graceful features of her face, and her brown eyes that are still burning with anger.

“For getting hurt. You didn’t want me to— I tried but—”

“Jamie Crabbe and Goyle were out for you and your team from the beginning of the game. It was unrealistic for me to think that you could have possibly made it through that unscathed.” Ariana admits with a chagrinned look on her face. I let out a sigh of relief and wince at the pull in my ribs.

“In that case then, do you mind taking me to hospital wing? I think I may have switched my spleen with my pancreas…” I groan. Without another word Ariana drapes my arm over her shoulder, and slides hers around my waist holding onto my firmly. Before we make it all the way off the pitch though, my brother who silently slips in on my other side supports the rest of my weight.

“Remind me Jamie to never regret that weird magic of yours. I believe that it saved you tonight.” Luka mutters. I close my eyes for a second, and let a shaky breath of air out. That it did indeed.

* * *

Ariana and Luka stayed with me in the hospital wing for a while. Luka had to leave after an hour to go and check on something that he had in the works. I don’t question him, because whatever crazy experiment he’s concocting I want no part of it at all. One life or death situation a day is enough for me thank you very much.

Ariana stayed with me though for every vile potion, and painful healing in the four cracked ribs and stress fractures to my right arm and leg. Sure the fall didn’t kill me but it very well tried to. I was just getting ready to leave with Ariana helping me get back into my cloak for I’m very sore when the dreaded clearing of a throat sounded.

“Hem, hem.” I wince and shoot pleading eyes to Ariana to just say that who I think it is isn’t actually there. The hard look on her face tells me that there’s going to be no such luck for me tonight.

“Good evening Professor Umbridge.” Ariana says tightly sounding like she wanted anything to call her a vile toad.

“Miss Dumbledore I’m not at all surprised to find you here with Miss Pendragon.” She says with that god-awful tone of voice. I turn around slowly and sink back down onto the bed. I have a feeling that I’m going to be needing to sit down for whatever is going to happen now.

“Anything we can help you with professor?” Ariana asks, speaking to the woman for me. I don’t know how I can ever repay the girl for doing this for me.

“Oh nothing, I was in fact coming to check on Miss Pendragon and see how she is feeling.”

Well that is certainly strange, and not at all creepy. “I’m fine professor thank you for inquiring.” I force out trying to remember the etiquette lessons I was taught oh so long ago.

“That’s good to hear, and it will make this news all the easier to hear. Effective immediately Mr. Potter, both Mr. Weasleys, and you will be banned from the Gryffindor Quidditch team for life.” She says with a twisted smile on her face. I feel my heart stop beating and my breath catch in my chest.

“What?” I force out in a strangled voice.

“You can’t do that!” Ariana shouts.

“Oh I think you’ll find that I can Miss Dumbledore, and it is my right from Educational Decree Number Twenty Five to deal out the punishments of students anyway that I think necessary.” She says in a false sweet voice.

“I-I didn’t even do anything…” I say in a lost voice. My mind is swirling around dangerously. I feel like the floor has been pulled out from under me, and that there’s nothing familiar to keep me from falling.

“If Miss Dumbledore hadn’t held you back same for Mr. Weasley, then you would have been fighting just the same.” She says decisively. “Besides I watched your fall there Miss Pendragon and I don’t know what you’re playing at with that blue glow of yours but I definitely know that its not natural, and I won’t stand for it in my school. Pray that I don’t find out what it is.” She hisses, narrowing her eyes at me.

Never had I felt so small, and insignificant before, or unnatural. I feel a stinging burning sensation in the back of my eyes and I try to fight it.

“You can’t talk to her like that!” Ariana growls. She steps in front of me and shields me from the ugly woman’s vile words.

“I can, and I will not tolerate for such unnaturalness! You best be watching your step as well Ariana Dumbledore for I’ll be keeping a close eye on you as well—”

“I think that is more than enough Professor Umbridge. This is a place of healing not mudslinging. You are causing my patient distress and I must ask that you leave.” The strong voice of Madam Pomfrey rings out from beside us.

She has her arms crossed over her chest, and the stern matron has never looked so angry ever before. Umbridge opens her mouth to respond, but thinks better of it. She closes it, and with one last cold look to us, she turns on her heels and leaves the wing with a slam of the giant doors.

The second she’s gone I can’t control it anymore. Tears race down my cheeks, as I silently sob into my hands. The bed shifts beside me, as I’m gathered up into Ariana’s arms. She tucks my head into her neck, not even caring about my tears that splash onto her skin.

“That vile woman. Reprehensible. I don’t know why they ever let her become a teacher, tearing down children that way. Don’t you listen to her dearie. There is nothing wrong with you. You are a normal young witch, who just has a little extra on the side. That is nothing to be ashamed of but rather be proud of.” Madam Pomfrey says.

I don’t bother responding to her though. I only burrow closer into Ariana, and make this terrible feeling of having zero self worth disappear.

* * *

It is not fun when I get back to the common room. “Banned,” says Angelina in a hollow voice. “Banned. No Seeker and no Beaters, and down a Chaser . . . What on earth are we going to do?”

It does not feel as though we have won the match at all. Everywhere I look there are disconsolate and angry faces; the team themselves are slumped around the fire, all apart from Ron, who has not been seen since the end of the match. I try to keep the hollow feeling that’s in my chest from growing, but its not working very well.

“It’s just so unfair,” says Alicia numbly. “I mean, what about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?”

“No,” says Ginny miserably; she is snuggled into the comfy chair next to me, while Hermione sits next to Harry. I think that she can sense that something’s off in me. “He just got lines, I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner.”

I turn my face away from the rest of the group and rest my face again Ginny’s shoulder. I squeeze my eyes closed and attempt to believe that we’re back home at the Burrow having a sleepover in one bed, even though we already share a room. It doesn’t help though, the aching hole still howls painfully.

“And banning Fred and Jamie when they didn’t even do anything!” says Alicia furiously, pummeling her knee with her fist.

“It’s not my fault I didn’t,” says Fred, with a very ugly look on his face. “I would’ve pounded the little scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn’t been holding me back.”

“He would have been toast if it wasn’t for Ariana.” I say softly into Ginny. Who even knows if Malfoy even would still be alive right now if my magic had gotten ahold of him. Then I would be even more of a monster than I am now.

“I’m going to bed,” says Angelina, getting slowly to her feet. “Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad dream. . . . Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and find we haven’t played yet . . .”

She is soon followed by Katie. Fred and George slope off to bed some time later, glowering at everyone they pass, and Ginny hesitates before leaving me. “Will you be okay? Do you need me to stay Jame?” She asks me softly. I manage a faint upturn of my mouth and shake my head. With a worried look still on her face, she slowly climbs out of the chair. Ginny leans over and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead, before hurrying up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory.

Any other day, and the display of care would have made me warm inside, but today is didn’t even spark a glow.

Only Harry, Hermione, and I re left beside the fire.

“Have you seen Ron?” Hermione asks in a low voice. Harry shakes his head, and I stare listlessly at her for a moment, before closing my eyes.

“I think he’s avoiding us,” says Hermione. “Where do you think he — ?”

But at that precise moment, there is a creaking sound behind us as the Fat Lady swings forward and Ron comes clambering through the portrait hole. He is very pale indeed and there is snow in his hair. When he sees Harry, Hermione, and me he stops dead in his tracks.

“Where have you been?” says Hermione anxiously, springing up.

“Walking,” Ron mumbles. He is still wearing his Quidditch things.

“You look frozen,” says Hermione. “Come and sit down!”

Ron walks to the fireside and sinks into the chair farthest from Harry’s and mine, not looking at us. The stolen Snitch zooms over our heads.

“I’m sorry,” Ron mumbles, looking at his feet.

“What for?” says Harry.

“For thinking I can play Quidditch,” says Ron. “I’m going to resign first thing tomorrow.”

“If you resign,” says Harry testily, “there’ll only be two players left on the team.” And when Ron looks puzzled, he says, “I’ve been given a lifetime ban. So’ve Fred, George and Jamie.”

“What?” Ron yelps.

Hermione tells him the full story; Harry can’t not bear to tell it again. There’s no way that I’m telling mine as well. When she has finished, Ron looks more anguished than ever.

“This is all my fault —”

“You didn’t make me punch Malfoy,” says Harry angrily.

“— if I wasn’t so lousy at Quidditch —”

“— it’s got nothing to do with that —”

“— it was that song that wound me up —”

“— it would’ve wound anyone up —”

Hermione gets up and walks to the window, away from the argument, watching the snow swirling down against the pane.

“Look, drop it, will you!” Harry bursts out. “It’s bad enough without you blaming yourself for everything!”

Ron says nothing but sits gazing miserably at the damp hem of his robes. After a while he says in a dull voice, “This is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“Join the club,” says Harry bitterly.

“I don’t even want to hear it from either of you.” I say hollowly. They glance at me oddly, but I’m in no mood to share. I just want to crawl into my bed and sleep for a couple of years, maybe wake up when I’ve graduated or Voldemort’s killed us all. Whichever comes first of course.

“Well,” says Hermione, her voice trembling slightly. “I can think of one thing that might cheer you both up.”

“Oh yeah?” says Harry skeptically.

“Yeah,” says Hermione, turning away from the pitch-black, snow-flecked window, a broad smile spreading across her face. “Hagrid’s back.”

Heh. Maybe something good can come out of this night after all.


	17. Hagrid's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 17- Hagrid’s Tale

 

As soon as those words were out of Hermione’s mouth Harry was bolting up the steps to the boys’ dormitory to fetch his cloak. Hermione made a similar dash up the stairs of the girls’ dormitory, while Ron and I just stood there blinking stupidly for a second or two wondering what exactly we had just witnessed there.

“Can you believe them?” Ron mutters slowly. I shrug my shoulders, wincing at the lingering soreness that’s left from my healed body. It still feels like the bruises are on my skin.

“It’s Hagrid.” I say with a simple shrug. Harry comes stumbling back down the steps with his invisibility cloak in his hands.   
“Hermione?” He asks.

“Dorm.” I let him know. For the whole five minutes that it takes Hermione to come down with her gloves, scarf, and misshapen hat, Harry is pacing the entire time. Hermione tosses me my scarf and hat.

“Well, it’s cold out there!” she says defensively, as Ron clicks his tongue impatiently.

We creep through the portrait hole and cover ourselves hastily in the Cloak — Ron has grown so much he now needs to crouch to prevent his feet showing — then, moving slowly and cautiously, we proceed down the many staircases, pausing at intervals to check the map for signs of Filch or Mrs. Norris. We are lucky; we see nobody but Nearly Headless Nick, who is gliding along absentmindedly humming something that sounds horribly like “Weasley Is Our King.” We creep across the entrance hall and then out into the silent, snowy grounds. With a great leap of my heart, I see little golden squares of light ahead and smoke coiling up from Hagrid’s chimney. Harry sets off at a quick march, the rest of us jostling and bumping along behind him, and we crunch excitedly through the thickening snow until at last we reach the wooden front door; when Harry raises his fist and knocks three times, a dog starts barking frantically inside.

“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry calls through the keyhole.

“Shoulda known!” says a gruff voice.

We beam at one another under the Cloak; we can tell that Hagrid’s voice is pleased.  “Bin home three seconds . . . Out the way, Fang . . . Out the way, yeh dozy dog . . .”

The bolt is drawn back, the door creaks open, and Hagrid’s head appears in the gap.

Hermione screams.

“Merlin’s beard, keep it down!” says Hagrid hastily, staring wildly over our heads.  “Under that Cloak, are yeh? Well, get in, get in!”

“I’m sorry!” Hermione gasps, as the four of us squeeze past Hagrid into the house and pull the Cloak off ourselves so he can see us. “I just — oh, Hagrid!”

I wince in sympathy. “It’s nuthin’, it’s nuthin’!” says Hagrid hastily, shutting the door behind us and hurrying to close all the curtains, but Hermione continues to gaze up at him in horror.

Hagrid’s hair is matted with congealed blood, and his left eye has been reduced to a puffy slit amid a mass of purple-and-black bruises. There are many cuts on his face and hands, some of them still bleeding, and he is moving gingerly, which makes me suspect broken ribs, since I’ve had some before. It is obvious that he has only just got home; a thick black traveling cloak lays over the back of a chair and a haversack large enough to carry several small children leans against the wall inside the door. Hagrid himself, twice the size of a normal man and three times as broad, is now limping over to the fire and placing a copper kettle over it.

“What happened to you?” Harry demands, while Fang dances around us all, trying to lick our faces. I groan as the dog nearly gets his tongue in my mouth. So I push Fang off of me, and sick him on Ron.

“Told yeh, nuthin’,” says Hagrid firmly. “Want a cuppa?”

“Come off it,” says Ron, “you’re in a right state!”

“I’m tellin’ yeh, I’m fine,” says Hagrid, straightening up and turning to beam at us all, but wincing. “Blimey, it’s good ter see you four again — had good summers, did yeh?”

“Hagrid you’re hurt.” I say sadly.

“Hagrid, you’ve been attacked!” says Ron at the same time.

“Fer the las’ time, it’s nuthin’!” says Hagrid firmly.

“Would you say it was nothing if one of us turned up with a pound of mince instead of a face?” Ron demands.

“You ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid,” says Hermione anxiously.  “Some of those cuts look nasty.”

“I’m dealin’ with it, all righ’?” says Hagrid repressively.

He walks across to the enormous wooden table that stands in the middle of his cabin and twitches aside a tea towel that has been lying on it. Underneath is a raw, bloody, green-tinged steak slightly larger than the average car tire.

“You’re not going to eat that, are you, Hagrid?” says Ron, leaning in for a closer look. “It looks poisonous.”

“It’s s’posed ter look like that, it’s dragon meat,” Hagrid says. “An’ I didn’ get it ter eat.”

He picks up the steak and slaps it over the left side of his face. Greenish blood trickles down into his beard as he gives a soft moan of satisfaction. I never did understand the whole meat on the eye thing, but that’s probably just my upbringing talking.

“Tha’s better. It helps with the stingin’, yeh know.”

“So are you going to tell us what’s happened to you?” Harry asks.

“Can’, Harry. Top secret. More’n me job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”

“Did the giants beat you up, Hagrid?” asks Hermione quietly.

Hagrid’s fingers slip on the dragon steak, and it slides squelchily onto his chest.

“Giants?” says Hagrid, catching the steak before it reaches his belt and slapping it back over his face. “Who said anythin’ abou’ giants? Who yeh bin talkin’ to? Who’s told yeh what I’ve — who’s said I’ve bin — eh?”

“We guessed,” says Hermione apologetically.

“You’re kinda the one of the only people qualified for the job.” I say softly.

“Oh, yeh did, did yeh?” says Hagrid, fixing her sternly with the eye that is not hidden by the steak.

“It was kind of . . . obvious,” says Ron. Harry nods.

Hagrid glares at us, then snorts, throws the steak onto the table again and strides back to the kettle, which is now whistling.

“Never known kids like you four fer knowin’ more’n yeh oughta,” he mutters, splashing boiling water into four of his bucket-shaped mugs. “An’ I’m not complimentin’ yeh, neither. Nosy, some’d call it. Interferin’.”

But his beard twitches.

“You love us for it.” I say, managing a slight grin.

“So you have been to look for giants?” says Harry, grinning as he sits down at the table. The rest of us join him.

Hagrid sets tea in front of each of us, sits down, picks up his steak again, and slaps it back over his face.

“Yeah, all righ’,” he grunts, “I have.”

“And you found them?” says Hermione in a hushed voice.

“Well, they’re not that difficult ter find, ter be honest,” says Hagrid. “Pretty big, see.”

“Where are they?” says Ron.

“Mountains,” says Hagrid unhelpfully.

“Sounds about right.” I say biting my lip.

“So why don’t Muggles — ?”

“They do,” says Hagrid darkly. “O’ny their deaths are always put down ter mountaineerin’ accidents, aren’ they?”

He adjusts the steak a little so that it covers the worst of the bruising.

“Come on, Hagrid, tell us what you’ve been up to!” says Ron. “Tell us about being attacked by the giants and Harry can tell you about being attacked by the dementors —”

Hagrid chokes in his mug and drops his steak at the same time; a large quantity of spit, tea, and dragon blood is sprayed over the table as Hagrid coughs and splutters and the steak slides, with a soft splat, onto the floor.

“Whadda yeh mean, attacked by dementors?” growls Hagrid.

“Didn’t you know?” Hermione asks him, wide-eyed.

“It was everywhere.” I say slightly impressed at his ability to be out of the loop.

“I don’ know anything that’s been happenin’ since I left. I was on a secret mission, wasn’ I, didn’ wan’ owls followin’ me all over the place — ruddy dementors! Yeh’re not serious?”

“Yeah, I am, they turned up in Little Whinging and attacked my cousin and me, and then the Ministry of Magic expelled me —” Harry says.

“WHAT?”

“— and I had to go to a hearing and everything, but tell us about the giants first.”

“You were expelled?”

“Tell us about your summer and I’ll tell you about mine.”

Hagrid glares at Harry through his one open eye. Harry looks right back at him, with an expression of innocent determination on his face.

“Oh, all righ’,” Hagrid says in a resigned voice. Well this should be interesting.

He bends down and tugs the dragon steak out of Fang’s mouth.

“Oh, Hagrid, don’t, it’s not hygien —” Hermione begins, but Hagrid has already slapped the meat back over his swollen eye. He takes another fortifying gulp of tea and then says, “Well, we set off righ’ after term ended —”

“Madame Maxime went with you, then?” Hermione interjects.

“Yeah, tha’s right,” says Hagrid, and a soft expression appears on the few inches of face that are not obscured by beard or green steak. “Yeah, it was jus’ the pair of us. An’ I’ll tell yeh this, she’s not afraid of roughin’ it, Olympe. Yeh know, she’s a fine, well-dressed woman, an’ knowin’ where we was goin’ I wondered ’ow she’d feel abou’ clamberin’ over boulders an’ sleepin’ in caves an’ tha’, bu’ she never complained once.”

“You knew where you were going?” I ask. “You knew where the giants were?”

“Well, Dumbledore knew, an’ he told us,” says Hagrid.

“Are they hidden?” asks Ron. “Is it a secret, where they are?”

“Not really,” says Hagrid, shaking his shaggy head. “It’s jus’ that mos’ wizards aren’ bothered where they are, s’ long as it’s a good long way away. But where they are’s very difficult ter get ter, fer humans anyway, so we needed Dumbledore’s instructions. Took us abou’ a month ter get there —”

“A month?” says Ron, as though he has never heard of a journey lasting such a ridiculously long time. I have to agree with him a little there. “But — why couldn’t you just grab a Portkey or something?”

There is an odd expression in Hagrid’s unobscured eye as he squints at Ron; it is almost pitying.

“We’re bein’ watched, Ron,” he says gruffly.

“What d’you mean?”

“Yeh don’ understand,” says Hagrid. “The Ministry’s keepin’ an eye on Dumbledore an’ anyone they reckon’s in league with him, an’ —”

“We know about that,” says Harry quickly, keen to hear the rest of Hagrid’s story. “We know about the Ministry watching Dumbledore —”

“So you couldn’t use magic to get there?” asks Ron, looking thunderstruck. “You had to act like Muggles all the way?”

“Well, not exactly all the way,” says Hagrid cagily. “We jus’ had ter be careful, ’cause Olympe an’ me, we stick out a bit —”

Ron makes a stifled noise somewhere between a snort and a sniff and hastily takes a gulp of tea. I slap the back of his head for good measure, and he narrows his eyes at me in a glare, but I’m not apologetic. Tonight has been horrible.

“— so we’re not hard ter follow. We was pretendin’ we was goin’ on holiday together, so we got inter France an’ we made like we was headin’ fer where Olympe’s school is, ’cause we knew we was bein’ tailed by someone from the Ministry. We had to go slow, ’cause I’m not really s’posed ter use magic an’ we knew the Ministry’d be lookin’ fer a reason ter run us in. But we managed ter give the berk tailin’ us the slip round abou’ Dee-John —”

“Ooooh, Dijon?” says Hermione excitedly. “I’ve been there on holiday, did you see — ?”

She falls silent at the look on Ron’s face.

“We chanced a bit o’ magic after that, and it wasn’ a bad journey. Ran inter a couple o’ mad trolls on the Polish border, an’ I had a sligh’ disagreement with a vampire in a pub in Minsk, but apart from tha’, couldn’t’a bin smoother.

“An’ then we reached the place, an’ we started trekkin’ up through the mountains, lookin’ fer signs of ’em . . .”

This is sounding like something out of a storybook from when I was younger, and I couldn’t get asleep.

“We had ter lay off the magic once we got near ’em. Partly ’cause they don’ like wizards an’ we didn’ want ter put their backs up too soon, and partly ’cause Dumbledore had warned us You-Know-Who was bound ter be after the giants an’ all. Said it was odds on he’d sent a messenger off ter them already. Told us ter be very careful of drawin’ attention ter ourselves as we got nearer in case there was Death Eaters around.”

Hagrid pauses for a long draught of tea.

“Go on!” says Harry urgently.

“Found ’em,” says Hagrid baldly. “Went over a ridge one nigh’ an’ there they was, spread ou’ underneath us. Little fires burnin’ below an’ huge shadows . . . It was like watchin’ bits o’ the mountain movin’.”

“How big are they?” asks Ron in a hushed voice.

“’Bout twenty feet,” says Hagrid casually. “Some o’ the bigger ones mighta bin twenty-five.” That’s tall.

“And how many were there?” asks Harry.

“I reckon abou’ seventy or eighty,” says Hagrid.

“Is that all?” says Hermione sounding slightly disappointed.

“Yep,” says Hagrid sadly, “eighty left, an’ there was loads once, musta bin a hundred diff’rent tribes from all over the world. But they’ve bin dyin’ out fer ages. Wizards killed a few, o’ course, but mostly they killed each other, an’ now they’re dyin’ out faster than ever. They’re not made ter live bunched up together like tha’. Dumbledore says it’s our fault, it was the wizards who forced ’em to go an’ made ’em live a good long way from us an’ they had no choice but ter stick together fer their own protection.”

“So,” says Harry, “you saw them and then what?”

“Well, we waited till morning, didn’ want ter go sneakin’ up on ’em in the dark, fer our own safety,” says Hagrid. “’Bout three in the mornin’ they fell asleep jus’ where they was sittin’. We didn’ dare sleep. Fer one thing, we wanted ter make sure none of ’em woke up an’ came up where we were, an’ fer another, the snorin’ was unbelievable. Caused an avalanche near mornin’.

“Anyway, once it was light we wen’ down ter see ’em.”

“Just like that?” says Ron, looking awestruck. “You just walked right into a giant camp?”

“Well, Dumbledore’d told us how ter do it,” says Hagrid. “Give the Gurg gifts, show some respect, yeh know.”

“Give the what gifts?” asks Harry. I’m racking my brain for the little knowledge that I had learned on giants before coming to school.

“Oh, the Gurg — means the chief.” There it is.

“How could you tell which one was the Gurg?” asks Ron.

Hagrid grunts in amusement.

“No problem,” he says. “He was the biggest, the ugliest, an’ the laziest. Sittin’ there waitin’ ter be brought food by the others. Dead goats an’ such like. Name o’ Karkus. I’d put him at twenty-two, twenty-three feet, an’ the weight of a couple o’ bull elephants. Skin like rhino hide an’ all.”

“And you just walked up to him?” says Hermione breathlessly.

“That’s insane Hagrid. If I’m ever facing off against a giant I’m calling you for help.” I tell him with awe.

“Well . . . down ter him, where he was lyin’ in the valley. They was in this dip between four pretty high mountains, see, beside a mountain lake, an’ Karkus was lyin’ by the lake roarin’ at the others ter feed him an’ his wife. Olympe an’ I went down the mountainside —”

“But didn’t they try and kill you when they saw you?” asks Ron incredulously.

“It was def’nitely on some of their minds,” says Hagrid, shrugging, “but we did what Dumbledore told us ter do, which was ter hold our gift up high an’ keep our eyes on the Gurg an’ ignore the others. So tha’s what we did. An’ the rest of ’em went quiet an’ watched us pass an’ we got right up ter Karkus’s feet an’ we bowed an’ put our present down in front o’ him.”

“What do you give a giant?” asks Ron eagerly. “Food?”

“Do you think of anything else?” I demand.

“Nah, he can get food all righ’ fer himself,” says Hagrid. “We took him magic. Giants like magic, jus’ don’t like us usin’ it against ’em. Anyway, that firs’ day we gave him a branch o’ Gubraithian fire.”

Whoa I did not see that coming, and I’m incredibly jealous.

Hermione says “wow” softly, but Harry and Ron both frown in puzzlement.

“A branch of — ?”

“Everlasting fire.” I breathe out enchanted at the thought of seeing one.

“You ought to know that by now, Professor Flitwick’s mentioned it at least twice in class!” Hermione says irritably.

“Well anyway,” says Hagrid quickly, intervening before Ron can answer back, “Dumbledore’d bewitched this branch to burn evermore, which isn’ somethin’ any wizard could do, an’ so I lies it down in the snow by Karkus’s feet and says, ‘A gift to the Gurg of the giants from Albus Dumbledore, who sends his respectful greetings.’”

“And what did Karkus say?” asks Harry eagerly.

“Nothin’,” says Hagrid. “Didn’ speak English.”

“You’re kidding!”

Well that’s rather inconvenient.

“Didn’ matter,” says Hagrid imperturbably, “Dumbledore had warned us tha’ migh’ happen. Karkus knew enough to yell fer a couple o’ giants who knew our lingo an’ they translated fer us.”

“And did he like the present?” asks Ron.

“Oh yeah, it went down a storm once they understood what it was,” says Hagrid, turning his dragon steak over to press the cooler side to his swollen eye. “Very pleased. So then I said, ‘Albus Dumbledore asks the Gurg to speak with his messenger when he returns tomorrow with another gift.’”

“Why couldn’t you speak to them that day?” asks Hermione.

“Maybe some form of etiquette?” I guess. Hagrid grins at me but shake his head.

“Dumbledore wanted us ter take it very slow,” says Hagrid. “Let ’em see we kept our promises. We’ll come back tomorrow with another present, an’ then we do come back with another present — gives a good impression, see? An’ gives them time ter test out the firs’ present an’ find out it’s a good one, an’ get ’em eager fer more. In any case, giants like Karkus — overload ’em with information an’ they’ll kill yeh jus’ to simplify things. So we bowed outta the way an’ went off an’ found ourselves a nice little cave ter spend that night in, an’ the followin’ mornin’ we went back an’ this time we found Karkus sittin’ up waitin’ fer us lookin’ all eager.”

“And you talked to him?” I say.

“Oh yeah. Firs’ we presented him with a nice battle helmet — goblin-made an’ indestructible, yeh know — an’ then we sat down an’ we talked.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much,” says Hagrid. “Listened mostly. But there were good signs. He’d heard o’ Dumbledore, heard he’d argued against the killin’ of the last giants in Britain. Karkus seemed ter be quite int’rested in what Dumbledore had ter say. An’ a few o’ the others, ’specially the ones who had some English, they gathered round an’ listened too. We were hopeful when we left that day. Promised ter come back next day with another present.

“But that night it all wen’ wrong.”

“What d’you mean?” says Ron quickly.

“Well, like I say, they’re not meant ter live together, giants,” says Hagrid sadly. “Not in big groups like that. They can’ help themselves, they half kill each other every few weeks. The men fight each other an’ the women fight each other, the remnants of the old tribes fight each other, an’ that’s even without squabbles over food an’ the best fires an’ sleepin’ spots. Yeh’d think, seein’ as how their whole race is abou’ finished, they’d lay off each other, but . . .”

Hagrid sighs deeply.

“That night a fight broke out, we saw it from the mouth of our cave, lookin’ down on the valley. Went on fer hours, yeh wouldn’ believe the noise. An’ when the sun came up the snow was scarlet an’ his head was lyin’ at the bottom o’ the lake.”

“Whose head?” gasps Hermione.

“Karkus’s,” says Hagrid heavily. I wince at the violent image. “There was a new Gurg, Golgomath.” He sighs deeply. “Well, we hadn’ bargained on a new Gurg two days after we’d made friendly contact with the firs’ one, an’ we had a funny feelin’ Golgomath wouldn’ be so keen ter listen to us, but we had ter try.”

“You went to speak to him?” asks Ron incredulously. “After you’d watched him rip off another giant’s head?”

“’Course we did,” says Hagrid, “we hadn’ gone all that way ter give up after two days! We wen’ down with the next present we’d meant ter give ter Karkus.”

“I knew it was no go before I’d opened me mouth. He was sitting there wearin’ Karkus’s helmet, leerin’ at us as we got nearer. He’s massive, one o’ the biggest ones there. Black hair an’ matchin’ teeth an’ a necklace o’ bones. Human-lookin’ bones, some of ’em. Well, I gave it a go — held out a great roll o’ dragon skin — an’ said ‘A gift fer the Gurg of the giants —’ Nex’ thing I knew, I was hangin’ upside down in the air by me feet, two of his mates had grabbed me.”

Hermione claps her hands to her mouth and I’m sure that I’ve gone pale. This isn’t a great story to hear at night.

“How did you get out of that?” asks Harry.

“Wouldn’ta done if Olympe hadn’ bin there,” says Hagrid. “She pulled out her wand an’ did some o’ the fastes’ spellwork I’ve ever seen. Ruddy marvelous. Hit the two holdin’ me right in the eyes with Conjunctivitus Curses an’ they dropped me straightaway — bu’ we were in trouble then, ’cause we’d used magic against ’em, an’ that’s what giants hate abou’ wizards. We had ter leg it an’ we knew there was no way we was going ter be able ter march inter camp again.”

“Blimey, Hagrid,” says Ron quietly.

“So how come it’s taken you so long to get home if you were only there for three days?” asks Hermione.

“We didn’ leave after three days!” says Hagrid, looking outraged. “Dumbledore was relyin’ on us!”

There’s some dedication for you.

“But you’ve just said there was no way you could go back!”

“Not by daylight, we couldn’, no. We just had ter rethink a bit. Spent a couple o’ days lyin’ low up in the cave an’ watchin’. An’ wha’ we saw wasn’ good.”

“Did he rip off more heads?” asks Hermione, sounding squeamish.

“No,” says Hagrid. “I wish he had.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean we soon found out he didn’ object ter all wizards — just us.”

“Death Eaters?” says Harry quickly. I freeze in my seat beside him.

“Yep,” says Hagrid darkly. “Couple of ’em were visitin’ him ev’ry day, bringin’ gifts ter the Gurg, an’ he wasn’ dangling them upside down.”

“How d’you know they were Death Eaters?” says Ron.

“Because I recognized one of ’em,” Hagrid growls. “Macnair, remember him? Bloke they sent ter kill Buckbeak? Maniac, he is. Likes killin’ as much as Golgomath, no wonder they were gettin’ on so well.”

“So Macnair’s persuaded the giants to join You-Know-Who?” says Hermione desperately. This is not looking good for our side now.

“Hold yer hippogriffs, I haven’ finished me story yet!” says Hagrid indignantly, who, considering he has not wanted to tell us anything in the first place, now seems to be rather enjoying himself. “Me an’ Olympe talked it over an’ we agreed, jus’ ’cause the Gurg looked like favorin’ You-Know-Who didn’ mean all of ’em would. We had ter try an’ persuade some o’ the others, the ones who hadn’ wanted Golgomath as Gurg.”

“How could you tell which ones they were?” asks Ron.

“Well, they were the ones bein’ beaten to a pulp, weren’ they?” says Hagrid patiently. “The ones with any sense were keepin’ outta Golgomath’s way, hidin’ out in caves roun’ the gully jus’ like we were. So we decided we’d go pokin’ round the caves by night an’ see if we couldn’ persuade a few o’ them.”

“You went poking around dark caves looking for giants?” says Ron with awed respect in his voice. That is one of the stupidest and yet bravest thing I’ve ever heard of.

“Well, it wasn’ the giants who worried us most,” says Hagrid. “We were more concerned abou’ the Death Eaters. Dumbledore had told us before we wen’ not ter tangle with ’em if we could avoid it, an’ the trouble was they knew we was around — ’spect Golgomath told him abou’ us. At night when the giants were sleepin’ an’ we wanted ter be creepin’ inter the caves, Macnair an’ the other one were sneakin’ round the mountains lookin’ fer us. I was hard put to stop Olympe jumpin’ out at them,” says Hagrid, the corners of his mouth lifting his wild beard. “She was rarin’ ter attack ’em. . . . She’s somethin’ when she’s roused, Olympe. . . . Fiery, yeh know . . . ’spect it’s the French in her . . .”

Hagrid gazes misty-eyed into the fire. Harry allows him thirty seconds’ reminiscence before clearing his throat loudly.

“So what happened? Did you ever get near any of the other giants?”

“What? Oh . . . oh yeah, we did. Yeah, on the third night after Karkus was killed, we crept outta the cave we’d bin hidin’ in and headed back down inter the gully, keepin’ our eyes skinned fer the Death Eaters. Got inside a few o’ the caves, no go — then, in abou’ the sixth one, we found three giants hidin’.”

“Cave must’ve been cramped,” says Ron.

“Wasn’ room ter swing a kneazle,” says Hagrid.

“Didn’t they attack you when they saw you?” asks Hermione.

“Probably woulda done if they’d bin in any condition,” says Hagrid, “but they was badly hurt, all three o’ them. Golgomath’s lot had beaten ’em unconscious; they’d woken up an’ crawled inter the nearest shelter they could find. Anyway, one o’ them had a bit of English an’ ’e translated fer the others, an’ what we had ter say didn’ seem ter go down too badly. So we kep’ goin’ back, visitin’ the wounded. . . . I reckon we had abou’ six or seven o’ them convinced at one poin’.”

“Six or seven?” says Ron eagerly. “Well that’s not bad — are they going to come over here and start fighting You-Know-Who with us?”

But Hermione says, “What do you mean ‘at one point,’ Hagrid?”

Hagrid looks at her sadly.

“Golgomath’s lot raided the caves. The ones tha’ survived didn’ wan’ no more ter to do with us after that.”

“So . . . so there aren’t any giants coming?” says Ron, looking disappointed.

“Nope,” says Hagrid, heaving a deep sigh as he turns over his steak again and applies the cooler side to his face, “but we did wha’ we meant ter do, we gave ’em Dumbledore’s message an’ some o’ them heard it an’ I ’spect some o’ them’ll remember it. Jus’ maybe, them that don’ want ter stay around Golgomath’ll move outta the mountains, an’ there’s gotta be a chance they’ll remember Dumbledore’s friendly to ’em. . . . Could be they’ll come . . .”

“At least you tried Hagrid.” I tell him with a soft smile. That’s more than most people would do when faced with dangerous giants.

Snow is filling up the window now. “Hagrid?” says Hermione quietly after a while.

“Mmm?”

“Did you . . . was there any sign of . . . did you hear anything about your . . . your . . . mother while you were there?”

Hagrid’s unobscured eye rest upon her, and Hermione looks rather scared.

“I’m sorry . . . I . . . forget it —”

“Dead,” Hagrid grunts. “Died years ago. They told me.”

“I’m sorry Hagrid.” I say sadly. It seems that too many of us know what it feels like to lost parents now.

“Oh . . . I’m . . . I’m really sorry,” says Hermione in a very small voice.

Hagrid shrugs his massive shoulders. “No need,” he says shortly. “Can’ remember her much. Wasn’ a great mother.”

We are silent again. Hermione glances nervously at Harry, Ron, and me, plainly wanting us to speak.

“But you still haven’t explained how you got in this state, Hagrid,” Ron says, gesturing towards Hagrid’s bloodstained face.

“Or why you’re back so late,” says Harry. “Sirius says Madame Maxime got back ages ago —”

“Who attacked you?” says Ron.

“I haven’ bin attacked!” says Hagrid emphatically. “I —”

But the rest of his words are drowned in a sudden outbreak of rapping on the door. Hermione gasps; her mug slips through her fingers and smashes on the floor; Fang yelps. All five of us stare at the window beside the doorway. The shadow of somebody small and squat ripples across the thin curtain. Oh Merlin please not her again. I don’t think that I can handle another confrontation.

“It’s her!” Ron whispers.

“Get under here!” Harry says quickly; seizing the Invisibility Cloak he whirls it over himself, Hermione, and me while Ron tears around the table and dives beneath the Cloak as well. Huddled together we back away into a corner. Fang is barking madly at the door. Hagrid looks thoroughly confused.

“Hagrid, hide our mugs!” I hiss.

Hagrid seizes Harry’s, Ron’s, and my mugs and shoves them under the cushion in Fang’s basket. Fang is now leaping up at the door; Hagrid pushes him out of the way with his foot and pulls it open.

Professor Umbridge is standing in the doorway wearing her green tweed cloak and a matching hat with earflaps. Lips pursed, she leans back so as to see Hagrid’s face; she barely reaches his navel. It would be hilarious if the situation weren’t so terrifying. She’d flay me alive with glee finding us out here.

“So,” she says slowly and loudly, as though speaking to somebody deaf. “You’re Hagrid, are you?”

Without waiting for an answer she strolls into the room, her bulging eyes rolling in every direction.

“Get away,” she snaps, waving her handbag at Fang, who has bounded up to her and is attempting to lick her face. Fang really needs to learn to become more picky with the people he licks.

“Er — I don’ want ter be rude,” says Hagrid, staring at her, “but who the ruddy hell are you?”

“My name is Dolores Umbridge.”

Her eyes are sweeping the cabin. Twice they stare directly into the corner where Harry and I stand, sandwiched between Ron and Hermione.

“Dolores Umbridge?” Hagrid says, sounding thoroughly confused. “I thought you were one o’ them Ministry — don’ you work with Fudge?”

“I was Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, yes,” says Umbridge, now pacing around the cabin, taking in every tiny detail within, from the haversack against the wall to the abandoned traveling cloak. “I am now the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher —”

“Tha’s brave of yeh,” says Hagrid, “there’s not many’d take tha’ job anymore —”

“— and Hogwarts High Inquisitor,” says Umbridge, giving no sign that she has heard him.

“Wha’s that?” says Hagrid, frowning.

“Precisely what I was going to ask,” says Umbridge, pointing at the broken shards of china on the floor that were Hermione’s mug.

“Oh,” says Hagrid, with a most unhelpful glance towards the corner where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stand hidden, “oh, tha’ was . . . was Fang. He broke a mug. So I had ter use this one instead.”

Hagrid points to the mug from which he has been drinking, one hand still clamped over the dragon steak pressed to his eye. Umbridge stands facing him now, taking in every detail of his appearance instead of the cabin’s.

“I heard voices,” she says quietly.

“I was talkin’ ter Fang,” says Hagrid stoutly.

“And was he talking back to you?”

“Well . . . in a manner o’ speakin’,” says Hagrid, looking uncomfortable. “I sometimes say Fang’s near enough human —”

“There are four sets of footprints in the snow leading from the castle doors to your cabin,” says Umbridge sleekly.

Hermione gasps; I clap a hand over her mouth. Luckily, Fang is sniffing loudly around the hem of Professor Umbridge’s robes, and she does not appear to have heard.

“Well, I on’y jus’ got back,” says Hagrid, waving an enormous hand at the haversack. “Maybe someone came ter call earlier an’ I missed ’em.”

“There are no footsteps leading away from your cabin door.”

“Well I . . . I don’ know why that’d be . . .” says Hagrid, tugging nervously at his beard and again glancing towards the corner where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stand, as though asking for help. Come on Hagrid. “Erm . . .”

Umbridge wheels around and strides the length of the cabin, looking around carefully. She bends and peers under the bed. She opens Hagrid’s cupboards. She passes within two inches of where we stand pressed against the wall; I actually pull in my stomach as she walks by. After looking carefully inside the enormous cauldron Hagrid uses for cooking she wheels around again and says, “What has happened to you? How did you sustain those injuries?”

Hagrid hastily removes the dragon steak from his face, which in my opinion is a mistake, because the black-and-purple bruising all around his eye is now clearly visible, not to mention the large amount of fresh and congealed blood on his face.  “Oh, I . . . had a bit of an accident,” he says lamely.

“What sort of accident?”

“I-I tripped.”

“You tripped,” she repeats coolly.

“Yeah, tha’s right. Over . . . over a friend’s broomstick. I don’ fly, meself. Well, look at the size o’ me, I don’ reckon there’s a broomstick that’d hold me. Friend o’ mine breeds Abraxan horses, I dunno if you’ve ever seen ’em, big beasts, winged, yeh know, I’ve had a bit of a ride on one o’ them an’ it was —”

“Where have you been?” asks Umbridge, cutting coolly through Hagrid’s babbling.

“Where’ve I . . . ?”

“Been, yes,” she says. “Term started more than two months ago. Another teacher has had to cover your classes. None of your colleagues has been able to give me any information as to your whereabouts. You left no address. Where have you been?”

There is a pause in which Hagrid stares at her with his newly uncovered eye. I can almost hear his brain working furiously.

“I — I’ve been away for me health,” he says.

“For your health,” says Umbridge. Her eyes travel over Hagrid’s discolored and swollen face; dragon blood drips gently onto his waistcoat in the silence. “I see.”

“Yeah,” says Hagrid, “bit o’ — o’ fresh air, yeh know —”

“Yes, as gamekeeper fresh air must be so difficult to come by,” says Umbridge sweetly. The small patch of Hagrid’s face that is not black or purple flushes.

“Well — change o’ scene, yeh know —”

“Mountain scenery?” says Umbridge swiftly. Well she definitely knows more than she should.

“Mountains?” Hagrid repeats, clearly thinking fast. “Nope, South of France fer me. Bit o’ sun an’ . . . an’ sea.”

“Really?” says Umbridge. “You don’t have much of a tan.”

“Yeah . . . well . . . sensitive skin,” says Hagrid, attempting an ingratiating smile. I notice that two of his teeth have been knocked out. Umbridge looks at him coldly; his smile falters. Even after everything she said to me earlier, my blood slowly starts to simmer again. Then she hoists her handbag a little higher into the crook of her arm and says, “I shall, of course, be informing the Minister of your late return.”

“Righ’,” says Hagrid, nodding.

“You ought to know too that as High Inquisitor it is my unfortunate but necessary duty to inspect my fellow teachers. So I daresay we shall meet again soon enough.”

She turns sharply and marches back to the door.

“You’re inspectin’ us?” Hagrid echoes blankly, looking after her.

“Oh yes,” says Umbridge softly, looking back at him with her hand on the door handle. “The Ministry is determined to weed out unsatisfactory teachers, Hagrid. Good night.”

She leaves, closing the door behind her with a snap. Harry makes to pull off the Invisibility Cloak but Hermione seizes his wrist.

“Not yet,” she breathes in his ear. “She might not be gone yet.”

Hagrid seems to be thinking the same way; he stumps across the room and pulls back the curtain an inch or so.

“She’s goin’ back ter the castle,” he says in a low voice. “Blimey . . . inspectin’ people, is she?”

“Yeah,” says Harry, pulling the Cloak off. “Trelawney’s on probation already . . .”

“Um . . . what sort of thing are you planning to do with us in class, Hagrid?” asks Hermione.

“Oh, don’ you worry abou’ that, I’ve got a great load o’ lessons planned,” says Hagrid enthusiastically, scooping up his dragon steak from the table and slapping it over his eye again. “I’ve bin keepin’ a couple o’ creatures saved fer yer O.W.L. year, you wait, they’re somethin’ really special.”

“Erm . . . special in what way?” asks Hermione tentatively.

“I’m not sayin’,” says Hagrid happily. “I don’ want ter spoil the surprise.”

“You have to be careful Hagrid.” I warn him softly. He gives me an odd look, and I shuffle nervously wondering if he can sense that there’s something wrong with me.

“Look, Hagrid,” says Hermione urgently, dropping all pretense, “Professor Umbridge won’t be at all happy if you bring anything to class that’s too dangerous —”

“Dangerous?” says Hagrid, looking genially bemused. “Don’ be silly, I wouldn’ give yeh anythin’ dangerous! I mean, all righ’, they can look after themselves —”

“Hagrid, you’ve got to pass Umbridge’s inspection, and to do that it would really be better if she saw you teaching us how to look after porlocks, how to tell the difference between knarls and hedgehogs, stuff like that!” says Hermione earnestly.

“But tha’s not very interestin’, Hermione,” says Hagrid. “The stuff I’ve got’s much more impressive, I’ve bin bringin’ ’em on fer years, I reckon I’ve got the on’y domestic herd in Britain —”

“Hagrid . . . please . . .” says Hermione, a note of real desperation in her voice.  “Umbridge is looking for any excuse to get rid of teachers she thinks are too close to Dumbledore. Please, Hagrid, teach us something dull that’s bound to come up in our O.W.L . . .”

But Hagrid merely yawns widely and casts a one-eyed look of longing towards the vast bed in the corner.

“Lis’en, it’s bin a long day an’ it’s late,” he says, patting Hermione gently on the shoulder, so that her knees give way and hit the floor with a thud. “Oh — sorry —” He pulls her back up by the neck of her robes. “Look, don’ you go worryin’ abou’ me, I promise yeh I’ve got really good stuff planned fer yer lessons now I’m back. . . . Now you lot had better get back up to the castle, an’ don’ forget ter wipe yer footprints out behind yeh!”

“I dunno if you got through to him,” says Ron a short while later when, having checked that the coast is clear, we walk back up to the castle through the thickening snow, leaving no trace behind them due to the Obliteration Charm I am performing as they go. If I focus on my magic then I don’t have to talk, which I really don’t want to. I am dead on my feet, and my insides aren’t doing much better.

“Then I’ll go back again tomorrow,” says Hermione determinedly. “I’ll plan his lessons for him if I have to. I don’t care if she throws out Trelawney but she’s not taking Hagrid!”

For the first time in a really long time, the hopeless feeling in my chest takes hold and spreads. I have a feeling that a lot of things are going to be out of our hands for a while.


	18. The Eye of the Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 18- The Eye of the Snake

 

Hermione plows her way back to Hagrid’s cabin through two feet of snow on Sunday morning. Harry and Ron want to go with her, but their mountain of homework has reached an alarming height again, so they grudgingly remain in the common room, trying to ignore the gleeful shouts drifting up from the grounds outside, where students are enjoying themselves skating on the frozen lake, tobogganing, and worst of all, bewitching snowballs to zoom up to Gryffindor Tower and rap hard on the windows. I sit with them not really feeling like partaking in festivities of the snow.

“Oy!” bellows Ron, finally losing patience and sticking his head out of the window, “I am a prefect and if one more snowball hits this window — OUCH!”

He withdraws his head sharply, his face covered in snow. I smirk silently but otherwise don’t say a word.

“It’s Fred and George,” he says bitterly, slamming the window behind him. “Gits . . .”

Hermione returns from Hagrid’s just before lunch, shivering slightly, her robes damp to the knees.

“So?” says Ron, looking up when she enters. “Got all his lessons planned for him?”

“Well, I tried,” she says dully, sinking into a chair beside Harry. She pulls out her wand and gives it a complicated little wave so that hot air streams out of the tip; she then points this at her robes, which begin to steam as they dry out. “He wasn’t even there when I arrived, I was knocking for at least half an hour. And then he came stumping out of the forest —”

Harry and I groan simultaneously. The Forbidden Forest is teeming with the kind of creatures most likely to get Hagrid the sack. “What’s he keeping in there? Did he say?” asks Harry.

“No,” says Hermione miserably. “He says he wants them to be a surprise. I tried to explain about Umbridge, but he just doesn’t get it. He kept saying nobody in their right mind would rather study knarls than chimaeras — oh I don’t think he’s got a chimaera,” she adds at the appalled look on Harry, Ron’s, and my faces, “but that’s not for lack of trying from what he said about how hard it is to get eggs. . . . I don’t know how many times I told him he’d be better off following Grubbly-Plank’s plan, I honestly don’t think he listened to half of what I said. He’s in a bit of a funny mood, you know. He still won’t say how he got all those injuries . . .”

Hagrid’s reappearance at the staff table at breakfast next day is not greeted by enthusiasm from all students. Some, like Fred, George, and Lee, roar with delight and sprint up the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables to wring Hagrid’s enormous hand; others, like Parvati and Lavender, exchange gloomy looks and shake their heads. I know that many of them prefer Professor Grubbly-Plank’s lessons, and the worst of it is that a very small, unbiased part of me knows that they have good reason: Grubbly-Plank’s idea of an interesting class is not one where there is a risk that somebody might have their head ripped off.

I refuse to look anywhere near the pink puffball of a toad whenever she is in the vicinity. She likes making it a point of talking directly to me, so that I have to reply and focus on a spot over her left ear. Ariana had been trying to pull me out of my shell since the harsh words spoken after the disaster of a game, but I haven’t budged. Everyone has noticed my mood change, but most are too scared to even bother to approach me.

Hermione has asked me a few times, but finally she gives up, and merely says for me to come to her when I’m ready.

It was with a certain amount of apprehension that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I head down to Hagrid’s on Tuesday, heavily muffled against the cold. I am worried, not only about what Hagrid might have decided to teach us, but also about how the rest of the class, particularly Malfoy and his cronies, will behave if Umbridge is watching them.

However, the High Inquisitor is nowhere to be seen as we struggle through the snow towards Hagrid, who stands waiting for us on the edge of the forest. He does not present a reassuring sight; the bruises that have been purple on Saturday night are now tinged with green and yellow and some of his cuts still seem to be bleeding.  I can not understand this: Has Hagrid perhaps been attacked by some creature whose venom prevents the wounds it inflicted from healing? As though to complete the ominous picture, Hagrid is carrying what looks like half a dead cow over his shoulder.

“We’re workin’ in here today!” Hagrid calls happily to the approaching students, jerking his head back at the dark trees behind him. “Bit more sheltered! Anyway, they prefer the dark . . .”

“What prefers the dark?” I hear Malfoy say sharply to Crabbe and Goyle, a trace of panic in his voice. “What did he say prefers the dark — did you hear?”

I glance at Harry and see the vicious smirk on his face from knowing that Malfoy is afraid of the Forbidden Forest. Considering that it holds Aragog, I’m going to say that his fear is somewhat substantiated.

“Ready?” says Hagrid happily, looking around at the class. “Right, well, I’ve bin savin’ a trip inter the forest fer yer fifth year. Thought we’d go an’ see these creatures in their natural habitat. Now, what we’re studyin’ today is pretty rare, I reckon I’m probably the on’y person in Britain who’s managed ter train ’em —”

“And you’re sure they’re trained, are you?” says Malfoy, the panic in his voice even more pronounced now. “Only it wouldn’t be the first time you’d brought wild stuff to class, would it?”

The Slytherins murmur agreement and a few Gryffindors look as though they think Malfoy has a fair point too.

“’Course they’re trained,” says Hagrid, scowling and hoisting the dead cow a little higher on his shoulder.

“So what happened to your face, then?” demands Malfoy.

“Mind yer own business!” says Hagrid, angrily. “Now if yeh’ve finished askin’ stupid questions, follow me!”

He turns and strides straight into the forest. Nobody seems much disposed to follow. I glance at Ron, Hermione, and Harry, who sigh but nod, and the four of us set off after Hagrid, leading the rest of the class.

We walk for about ten minutes until we reach a place where the trees stand so closely together that it is as dark as twilight and there is no snow on the ground at all. Hagrid deposites his half a cow with a grunt on the ground, steps back, and turns to face his class again, most of whom are creeping towards him from tree to tree, peering around nervously as though expecting to be set upon at any moment.

“Gather roun’, gather roun’,” says Hagrid encouragingly. “Now, they’ll be attracted by the smell o’ the meat but I’m goin’ ter give ’em a call anyway, ’cause they’ll like ter know it’s me . . .”

He turns, shakes his shaggy head to get the hair out of his face, and gives an odd, shrieking cry that echoes through the dark trees like the call of some monstrous bird.  Nobody laughs; most of them look too scared to make a sound.

Hagrid gives the shrieking cry again. A minute passes in which the class continues to peer nervously over their shoulders and around trees for a first glimpse of whatever it was that is coming. And then, as Hagrid shakes his hair back for a third time and expands his enormous chest, Harry nudges Ron and points into the black space between two gnarled yew trees.

I turn my gaze in that direction, but yet don’t see anything.

After a few seconds Ron mutters, “Why doesn’t Hagrid call them again?”

Harry gives him an incredulous look, and I squint harder at the spot where Harry is staring before giving up, knowing that I’m never going to see anything.

Most of the class seems to be unable to see whatever it is except for Harry, Neville, and some Slytherin boy.

“Oh, an’ here comes another one!” says Hagrid proudly. I look around where Hagrid is gesturing but see nothing. This is beginning to get seriously confusing.

“Now . . . put yer hands up, who can see ’em?”

Harry raises his hand quickly, and Hagrid nods to him.

“Yeah . . . yeah, I knew you’d be able ter, Harry,” he says seriously. “An’ you too, Neville, eh? Jamie you can’t see ‘em?” Hagrid asks me curiously. I bite down on my lower lip and shake my head slowly. Am I supposed to? A slightly saddened and relieved look comes over his face.

“Excuse me,” says Malfoy in a sneering voice, “but what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?”

For answer, Hagrid points at the cow carcass on the ground. The whole class stares at it for a few seconds, then several people gasp and Parvati squeals. I understand why: Bits of flesh stripping themselves away from the bones and vanishing into thin air looks very odd indeed.

“What’s doing it?” Parvati demands in a terrified voice, retreating behind the nearest tree. “What’s eating it?”

“Thestrals,” says Hagrid proudly and Hermione gives a soft “oh!” of comprehension at my shoulder. “Hogwarts has got a whole herd of ’em in here. Now, who knows — ?”

“But they’re really, really unlucky!” interrupts Parvati, looking alarmed. “They’re supposed to bring all sorts of horrible misfortune on people who see them. Professor Trelawney told me once —”

“No, no, no,” says Hagrid, chuckling, “tha’s jus’ superstition, that is, they aren’ unlucky, they’re dead clever an’ useful! ’Course, this lot don’ get a lot o’ work, it’s mainly jus’ pullin’ the school carriages unless Dumbledore’s takin’ a long journey an’ don’ want ter Apparate — an’ here’s another couple, look —”

Parvati shivers and presses herself closer to the tree, saying, “I think I felt something, I think it’s near me!”

“Don’ worry, it won’ hurt yeh,” says Hagrid patiently. “Righ’, now, who can tell me why some o’ you can see them an’ some can’t?”

Hermione raises her hand.

“Go on then,” says Hagrid, beaming at her.

“The only people who can see thestrals,” she says, “are people who have seen death.” I instantly pale at the thought. I was there in the house the night that my parents died, but they were killed in a different room. Kingsley apparated away with us before Augustus could come after us. I falter a step and Hermione places her hand on my arm, grounding me. I lean into her touch grateful. I’m not feeling like myself recently.

“Tha’s exactly right,” says Hagrid solemnly, “ten points ter Gryffindor. Now, thestrals —”

“Hem, hem.” Merlin please not her again. I don’t think I can stand anymore. Instead of the all consuming anger that usually fills me when she’s near, all that’s left is sickening uneasiness, and fear. I loathe myself because of how she now makes me feel.

Professor Umbridge has arrived. She is standing a few feet away from Harry, wearing her green hat and cloak again, her clipboard at the ready. Hagrid, who has never heard Umbridge’s fake cough before, is gazing in some concern at the closest thestral, evidently under the impression that it has made the sound.

“Hem, hem.”

“Oh hello!” Hagrid says, smiling, having located the source of the noise.

“You received the note I sent to your cabin this morning?” says Umbridge, in the same loud, slow voice she used with him earlier, as though she is addressing somebody both foreign and very slow. “Telling you that I would be inspecting your lesson?”

“Oh yeah,” says Hagrid brightly. “Glad yeh found the place all righ’! Well, as you can see — or, I dunno — can you? We’re doin’ thestrals today —”

“I’m sorry?” says Umbridge loudly, cupping her hand around her ear and frowning. “What did you say?”

Hagrid looks a little confused. Don’t play into her hand Hagrid.

“Er — thestrals!” he says loudly. “Big — er — winged horses, yeh know!”

He flaps his gigantic arms hopefully. Professor Umbridge raises her eyebrows at him and mutters as she makes a note on her clipboard, “‘has . . . to . . . resort . . . to . . . crude . . . sign . . . language . . .’”

“Well . . . anyway . . .” says Hagrid, turning back to the class and looking slightly flustered. “Erm . . . what was I sayin’?”

“‘Appears . . . to . . . have . . . poor . . . short . . . term . . . memory . . .’” mutters Umbridge, loudly enough for everyone to hear her. Draco Malfoy looks as though Christmas has come a month early; Hermione, on the other hand, turns scarlet with suppressed rage. I raise my hand and grip her arm tightly shaking my head at her.

“It’s not worth it Mione.” I tell her softly.

That doesn’t seem to calm the girl any.

“Oh yeah,” says Hagrid, throwing an uneasy glance at Umbridge’s clipboard, but plows on valiantly. “Yeah, I was gonna tell yeh how come we got a herd. Yeah, so, we started off with a male an’ five females. This one,” he pats an unseen horse, “name o’ Tenebrus, he’s my special favorite, firs’ one born here in the forest —”

“Are you aware,” Umbridge says loudly, interrupting him, “that the Ministry of Magic has classified thestrals as ‘dangerous’?”

My heart sinks like a stone, but Hagrid merely chuckles.

“Thestrals aren’ dangerous! All righ’, they might take a bite outta you if yeh really annoy them —”

“‘Shows . . . signs . . . of . . . pleasure . . . at . . . idea . . . of . . . violence . . .’” mutters Umbridge, scribbling on her clipboard again. A twinge of anger shoots through me, but is quickly put out when my eye accidentally catches Umbridge’s, and a cold sweat breaks out on my brow remembering her thinly veiled threats against Ariana and me.

“No — come on!” says Hagrid, looking a little anxious now. “I mean, a dog’ll bite if yeh bait it, won’ it — but thestrals have jus’ got a bad reputation because o’ the death thing — people used ter think they were bad omens, didn’ they? Jus’ didn’ understand, did they?”

Umbridge dows not answer; she finishes writing her last note, then looks up at Hagrid and says, again very loudly and slowly, “Please continue teaching as usual. I am going to walk” — she mimes walking — Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson are having silent fits of laughter — “among the students” — she points around at individual members of the class — “and ask them questions.” She points at her mouth to indicate talking. The anger swells back up in me again and a faint crackle of blue comes from my palms, and I quickly close my fists to hide them.

Hagrid stares at her, clearly at a complete loss to understand why she is acting as though he does not understand normal English. Hermione has tears of fury in her eyes now.

“You hag, you evil hag!” she whispers, as Umbridge walks toward Pansy Parkinson. “I know what you’re doing, you awful, twisted, vicious —”

“Erm . . . anyway,” says Hagrid, clearly struggling to regain the flow of his lesson, “so — thestrals. Yeah. Well, there’s loads o’ good stuff abou’ them . . .”

“Do you find,” says Professor Umbridge in a ringing voice to Pansy Parkinson, “that you are able to understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?”

“No because Parkinson doesn’t have half a brain.” I mumble under my breath.

Just like Hermione, Pansy has tears in her eyes, but these are tears of laughter; indeed, her answer is almost incoherent because she is trying to suppress her giggles. “No . . . because . . . well . . . it sounds . . . like grunting a lot of the time . . .”

Umbridge scribbles on her clipboard. The few unbruised bits of Hagrid’s face flush, but he tries to act as though he did not hear Pansy’s answer.

“Er . . . yeah . . . good stuff abou’ thestrals. Well, once they’re tamed, like this lot, yeh’ll never be lost again. ’Mazin’ senses o’ direction, jus’ tell ’em where yeh want ter go —”

“Assuming they can understand you, of course,” says Malfoy loudly, and Pansy Parkinson collapses in a fit of renewed giggles. Professor Umbridge smiles indulgently at them and then turns to Neville.

“You can see the thestrals, Longbottom, can you?” she says.

Neville nods.

“Whom did you see die?” she asks, her tone indifferent.

“My . . . my grandad,” says Neville.

“And what do you think of them?” she says, waving her stubby hand at the invisible horses, who by now have stripped a great deal of the carcass down to bone.

“Erm,” says Neville nervously, with a glance at Hagrid. “Well, they’re . . . er . . . okay . . .”

“‘Students . . . are . . . too . . . intimidated . . . to . . . admit . . . they . . . are . . . frightened . . .’” mutters Umbridge, making another note on her clipboard.

“No!” says Neville, looking upset, “no, I’m not scared of them — !”

“It’s quite all right,” says Umbridge, patting Neville on the shoulder with what she evidently intends to be an understanding smile, though it looks more like a leer to me. “Well, Hagrid,” she turns to look up at him again, speaking once more in that loud, slow voice, “I think I’ve got enough to be getting along with. . . . You will receive” — she mimes taking something from the air in front of her — “the results of your inspection” — she points at the clipboard — “in ten days’ time.” She holds up ten stubby little fingers, then, her smile wider and more toadlike than ever before beneath her green hat, she bustles from our midst, leaving Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson in fits of laughter, Hermione actually shaking with fury, and Neville looking confused and upset.

Well this has been a rather horrifying lesson if I do say so myself. I feel so off of my usual self, and this particular lesson isn’t helping me at all with bringing up memories of my dead parents and the imminent threat to Hagrid’s job.

“That foul, lying, twisting old gargoyle!” storms Hermione half an hour later, as we make our way back up to the castle through the channels we made earlier in the snow. “You see what she’s up to? It’s her thing about half-breeds all over again (cue wince from me)— she’s trying to make out Hagrid’s some kind of dim-witted troll, just because he had a giantess for a mother — and oh, it’s not fair, that really wasn’t a bad lesson at all — I mean, all right, if it had been Blast-Ended Skrewts again, but thestrals are fine — in fact, for Hagrid, they’re really good!”

“Umbridge said they’re dangerous,” says Ron. I roll my eyes at that. Ron really can be thick sometimes.

“Well, it’s like Hagrid said, they can look after themselves,” says Hermione impatiently, “and I suppose a teacher like Grubbly-Plank wouldn’t usually show them to us before N.E.W.T. level, but, well, they are very interesting, aren’t they? The way some people can see them and some can’t! I wish I could.”

“Do you?” Harry asks her quietly.

She looks horrorstruck.

“Oh Harry — I’m sorry — no, of course I don’t — that was a really stupid thing to say —”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, “don’t worry . . .”

“I wouldn’t wish to see them because of my parents…” I murmur softly.

“I’m surprised so many people could see them,” says Ron. “Three in a class —”

“Yeah, Weasley, we were just wondering,” says a malicious voice nearby. Unheard by any of us in the muffling snow, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are walking along right behind us. “D’you reckon if you saw someone snuff it you’d be able to see the Quaffle better?”

He, Crabbe, and Goyle roar with laughter as they push past on their way to the castle and then break into a chorus of “Weasley Is Our King.” Ron’s ears turn scarlet.

“Ignore them, just ignore them,” intones Hermione, pulling out her wand and performing the charm to produce hot air again, so that she can melt us an easier path through the untouched snow between us and the greenhouses. I help out with the same charm, and when we arrive, I give a relieved and soft smile to the blond already sitting in the seat next to mine. At least I can still take solace in Ariana.

* * *

 

December arrives, bringing with it more snow and a positive avalanche of homework for the fifth years. Ron and Hermione’s prefect duties also become more and more onerous as Christmas approached. That means that I see less of Ariana and Luka as well. They are called upon to supervise the decoration of the castle (“You try putting up tinsel when Peeves has got the other end and is trying to strangle you with it,” says Ron), to watch over first and second years spending their break times inside because of the bitter cold (“And they’re cheeky little snotrags, you know, we definitely weren’t that rude when we were in first year,” says Ron), and to patrol the corridors in shifts with Argus Filch, who suspects that the holiday spirit might show itself in an outbreak of wizard duels (“He’s got dung for brains, that one,” says Ron furiously). They are so busy that Hermione has stopped knitting elf hats and is fretting that she is down to her last three.

Harry and I don’t have the heart to tell her that Dobby is taking and keeping all of her hats for himself so that all the other elves don’t riot. Harry has been in an increasingly bad mood when hearing about everyone else’s Christmas plans.   Hermione is going skiing with her parents, something that greatly amuses Ron, who has never before heard of Muggles strapping narrow strips of wood to their feet to slide down mountains. Neither have I but Hermione has spent quite a while educating me on such matters.

Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, Luka, Ariana, and I are going back to the Burrow for Christmas. Ariana is tagging along for her grandfather is going to be busy at the time. I had spent he better part of my Saturday trying to console the girl over the fact that she wouldn’t get to see him yet again after all the time they’ve been spending apart.

Part of me really wants to smack Professor Dumbledore for doing this to his granddaughter, but I know that there must be some good reason for it, and Ariana believes so as well. “At least we’ll get to spend Christmas together ‘eh?” She says with a watery smile, as I hug her reassuringly again.

Harry moods worsens on hearing that she’s coming, before Ron slaps his forehead and informs him that Molly had invited Harry over for Christmas some two weeks ago, and that Ron was supposed to remind him about it. The smile on Harry’s face was almost bright enough for me not to slap Ron (almost).

Harry and I arrive early in the Room of Requirement for the last D.A. meeting before the holidays and are very glad we did, because when the lamps burst into light we see that Dobby took it upon himself to decorate the place for Christmas. I can tell the elf did it, because nobody else would have strung a hundred golden baubles from the ceiling, each showing a picture of Harry’s face and bearing the legend HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS!

Harry and I have only just managed to get the last of them down before the door creaks open and Luna Lovegood enters, looking dreamy as always.

“Hello,” she says vaguely, looking around at what remains of the decorations. “These are nice, did you put them up?”

“No,” says Harry, “it was Dobby the house-elf.”

“Mistletoe,” says Luna dreamily, pointing at a large clump of white berries placed almost over Harry’s head. I take a giant leap back, and Harry jumps out from under it. “Good thinking,” says Luna very seriously. “It’s often infested with nargles.”

We are saved the necessity of asking what nargles are by the arrival of Angelina, Katie, and Alicia. All three of them are breathless and look very cold.

“Well,” says Angelina dully, pulling off her cloak and throwing it into a corner, “we’ve replaced you two.”

“Replaced me?” says Harry blankly.

“Oh.” I say, shifting nervously. I had been trying to forget that that night had ever happened.

“You, Jamie, Fred, and George,” she says impatiently. “We’ve got another Seeker!”

“Who?” says Harry quickly.

“Ginny Weasley,” says Katie. I perk up at that. I’m impressed and happy for her, but disappointed for my friend.

Harry gapes at her.

“Yeah, I know,” says Angelina, pulling out her wand and flexing her arm. “But she’s pretty good, actually. Nothing on you, of course,” she says, throwing him a very dirty look, “but as we can’t have you . . .”

“I guess Alicia’s playing Chaser right?” I say softly. The older girl in question blushes and shrugs her shoulders.

“Its not really my thing anymore, but if the team can’t have you no matter how unfair it is, I’m the second best option.” She says apologetically. I give her a faint smile and shake my head.

“Do me a favor then?” I question. Harry and the three Chasers pay attention now.

“Anything.” Alicia says.

“Crush whoever you’re playing for me.” I request. The girls chuckle, but Harry still looks a little dark for my liking.

“And what about the Beaters?” Harry asks, trying to keep his voice even.

“Andrew Kirke,” says Alicia without enthusiasm, “and Jack Sloper. Neither of them are brilliant, but compared with the rest of the idiots who turned up . . .”

The arrival of Ron, Hermione, and Neville bring this depressing discussion to an end and within five minutes, the room is starting to fill up.

Ariana finds me dragging along a rather sullen looking Luka behind her. “I’m beginning to think that you had the right attitude with the prefect job Jamie.” Luka grumbles under his breath.

“Ah, are the first year giving you a run for your money?” I tease him. Luka’s scowl only deepens.

“I swear they’re worse than you ever were when we were eleven and that’s saying something.” He growls. I hit his arm not appreciating the bad remark. Ariana merely rolls her eyes tiredly.

“We just hardly have any time to ourselves is all.” She says diplomatically.

“Okay,” Harry says, calling us all to order. “I thought this evening we should just go over the things we’ve done so far, because it’s the last meeting before the holidays and there’s no point starting anything new right before a three-week break —”

“We’re not doing anything new?” says Zacharias Smith, in a disgruntled whisper loud enough to carry through the room. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come . . .”

“We’re all really sorry Harry didn’t tell you, then,” says Fred loudly. Several people snigger. Ariana sighs and shakes her head.

“You have a real winner in your house there.” I say under my breath to her. She rolls her eyes at that.

“Oh and like your house is filled with winners.” She mutters back.

“I like the term misunderstood.” I chuckle back.

“We can practice in pairs,” says Harry. “We’ll start with the Impediment Jinx, just for ten minutes, then we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again.”

We all divide up obediently; Harry partners Neville as usual, and I grab Ariana’s hand leading her to a corner of the room. The room is soon full of intermittent cries of “Impedimenta!” People freese for a minute or so, during which their partners stare aimlessly around the room watching other pairs at work, then will unfreeze and take their turn at the jinx.

Ariana uses her time waiting for me to come out of the jinx by making all manner of silly faces at me. If I wasn’t frozen I swear that I would have smiled. When I freeze her I amuse myself by conjuring a few charm to entertain her and myself. Harry glares at me darkly for not focusing on the work, but it really is rather boring.

After ten minutes on the Impediment Jinx, we lay out cushions all over the floor and start practicing Stunning again. Space is really too confined to allow us all to work this spell at once; half the group observes the others for a while, then swaps over.

Harry looks like he’s positively swelling with pride as he watches us all. True, Neville does Stun Padma Patil rather than Dean, at whom he is aiming at, but it is a much closer miss than usual, and everybody else has made enormous progress.

At the end of an hour, Harry calls a halt.

“You’re getting really good,” he says, beaming around at us. “When we get back from the holidays we can start doing some of the big stuff — maybe even Patronuses.”

I raise my eyebrow at that. That is some serious defensive magic that we’re talking about there.

There is a murmur of excitement. The room begins to clear in the usual twos and threes; most people wish Harry a Happy Christmas as they go. He collects up the cushions with Ron, Hermione, and me and stacks them neatly away. Ron, Hermione, and I leave before he does. I bet you any money that it’s because of Cho Chang hanging back in the room. If something doesn’t happen between the two of them, then I am going to be seriously disappointed.

* * *

 

I am playing with my charmed papers objects when Harry returns to the common room half an hour later to find Hermione, Ron, and I in the best seats by the fire; nearly everybody else has gone to bed. Hermione is writing a very long letter; she has already filled half a roll of parchment, which is dangling from the edge of the table. Ron is lying on the hearthrug, trying to finish his Transfiguration homework.

“What kept you?” Ron asks, as Harry sinks into the armchair next to Hermione’s.

Harry does not answer and I look up at him oddly. There’s something different about him, but I just can’t place it…

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asks, peering at him over the tip of her quill.

Harry gives. a halfhearted shrug.

“Cho didn’t stun you did she?” I snicker. I entertain myself too much with word play.

“What’s up?” says Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a clearer view of Harry. “What’s happened?”

“Is it Cho?” Hermione asks in a businesslike way. “Did she corner you after the meeting?”

Numbly surprised, Harry nods. Ron sniggers, breaking off when Hermione catches his eye. I am smirking while playing with my fire breathing kitten.

“So — er — what did she want?” Ron asks in a mock casual voice.

“Oh Harry— I need help with my… technique.” I say in a mockingly high voice. Hermione throws a pillow at me, but that doesn’t stop me.

“She —” Harry begins, rather hoarsely; he clears his throat and tries again. “She — er —”

“Did you kiss?” asks Hermione briskly.

Ron sits up so fast that he sends his ink bottle flying all over the rug. Disregarding this completely he stares avidly at Harry.

“Well?” he demands.

Harry looks from Ron’s expression of mingled curiosity and hilarity to Hermione’s slight frown, then my mirthful daze, and nods.

“HA!”

Ron makes a triumphant gesture with his fist and goes into a raucous peal of laughter that makes several timid-looking second years over beside the window jump. I am smirking playfully very happy for my friend. A reluctant grin spreads over Harry’s face as he watches Ron rolling around on the hearthrug. Hermione gives Ron a look of deep disgust and returns to her letter.

“Well?” Ron says finally, looking up at Harry. “How was it?”

Harry considers for a moment.

“Wet,” he says truthfully.

Ron makes a noise that may indicate jubilation or disgust, it is hard to tell.

“Because she was crying,” Harry continues heavily.

“She was crying?” I repeat sadly, having a feeling of what it is about.

“Oh,” says Ron, his smile fading slightly. “Are you that bad at kissing?”

“Dunno,” says Harry, who obviously hadn’t considered this, for he immediately looks rather worried. “Maybe I am.”

“Of course you’re not,” says Hermione absently, still scribbling away at her letter.

“How do you know?” says Ron in a sharp voice.

“Because Cho spends half her time crying these days,” says Hermione vaguely. “She does it at mealtimes, in the loos, all over the place.”

“Yeah she is rather sad all the time.” I say with a frown. I hate it that she cries a lot, but I don’t know the girl that well, so there’s not much that I can do.

“You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer her up,” says Ron, grinning. I glare at him, and launch myself across the rug to smack the back of his head. He glares at me and pushes me away, leading to a small tussle.

“Children the both of you!” Hermione scolds. That stops our rolling about. “Ron,” says Hermione in a dignified voice, dipping the point of her quill into her ink pot, “you are the most insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Ron indignantly. “What sort of person cries while someone’s kissing them?” He kicks my leg again, and I return it in kind.

“Yeah,” says Harry, slightly desperately, “who does?”

I don’t really have answer for that for I’ve never kissed anyone before in my life.

Hermione looks at the three of us with an almost pitying expression on her face.

“Don’t you understand how Cho’s feeling at the moment?” she asks.

“Somewhat.” I admit.

“No,” say Harry and Ron together.

Hermione sighs and lays down her quill.

“Well, obviously, she’s feeling very sad, because of Cedric dying. Then I expect she’s feeling confused because she liked Cedric and now she likes Harry, and she can’t work out who she likes best. Then she’ll be feeling guilty, thinking it’s an insult to Cedric’s memory to be kissing Harry at all, and she’ll be worrying about what everyone else might say about her if she starts going out with Harry. And she probably can’t work out what her feelings toward Harry are anyway, because he was the one who was with Cedric when Cedric died, so that’s all very mixed up and painful. Oh, and she’s afraid she’s going to be thrown off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team because she’s been flying so badly.”

Wow. I only knew like a quarter of all that. I understand being really conflicted with my emotions but never to this extent.

A slightly stunned silence greets the end of this speech, then Ron says, “One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.”

I give him an incredulous look.

“Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have,” says Hermione nastily, picking up her quill again.

“She was the one who started it,” says Harry. “I wouldn’t’ve — she just sort of came at me — and next thing she’s crying all over me — I didn’t know what to do —”

“Don’t blame you, mate,” says Ron, looking alarmed at the very thought.

“You just had to be nice to her,” says Hermione, looking up anxiously. “You were, weren’t you?”

“Well,” says Harry, an unpleasant heat creeping up his face, “I sort of — patted her on the back a bit.”

Hermione looks as though she is restraining herself from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty. He could have handled that better.

“Harry you’re around Hermione and I. You know girls need something better than that.” I say sadly.

“Since when do you act like a girl Jamie?” Ron snorts. I glare at him, and punch him in the arm hard. “See what I mean— abuse I tell you!”

“Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” Hermione finally cuts back in. “Are you going to see her again?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” says Harry. “We’ve got D.A. meetings, haven’t we?”

“You know what I mean,” says Hermione impatiently. The stunned look on Harry’s faces tells me that he didn’t even give a thought to dating the girl. Oh Harry this is going to end ever so badly for you if you don’t smarten up. This is even coming from me!

“Oh well,” says Hermione distantly, buried in her letter once more, “you’ll have plenty of opportunities to ask her . . .”

“What if he doesn’t want to ask her?” says Ron, who has been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd expression on his face.

“Don’t be silly,” says Hermione vaguely, “Harry’s liked her for ages, haven’t you, Harry?”

An unreadable expression falls over his face. I move over to him and contemplate on what I want to say.

“Don’t go with everyone else’s expectations for you. Do what you feel is best, for in the end, its your heart that’s on the line.” I tell him softly. Harry’s eyes widen slightly.

“That’s really deep.” He says. I roll my eyes at that.

“I may not be like most girls, but I do have a small clue about some emotional matters, just mainly not my own.” I admit with a sheepish grin.

“Who’re you writing the novel to anyway?” Ron asks Hermione, trying to read the bit of parchment now trailing on the floor. Hermione hitches it up out of sight.

“Viktor.”

“Krum?”

“How many other Viktors do we know?”

Ron said nothing, but looks disgruntled. We sit in silence for another twenty minutes, Ron finishes his Transfiguration essay with many snorts of impatience and crossings-out, Hermione writing steadily to the very end of the parchment, rolls it up carefully and seals it.

“Well, ’night,” says Hermione, yawning widely. “You coming Jamie?”

I scramble to gather up my charmed paper figures, and grin at her. “Right behind you. Night boys!” I call over my shoulder following my best friend up to our tower.

When we’re both ready for bed and climbing under the covers Hermione turns to face me.

“So, you admit that you have no clue about emotional matters that pertain to yourself?” She says with a very amused look on her face. I groan and smother my pillow on my face to the sound of her giggles.

Too bad the lightness of the moment didn’t last.


	19. St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies & Injuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 19- St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies & Injuries

 

I’ve had pleasanter wake up calls before, but never have I had McGonagall leaning over me with a finger to her lips in order to keep me quiet and from waking up the rest of the girls who are properly asleep.

“Professor… what’s going on?” I ask blinking blearily up at her. Her usually grave face looks even more solemn than usual, and it sends chills down my spine. “What happened? Is Luka okay?” I demand worriedly, my voice starting to get louder.

“No. He is just fine Jamie. He is waiting outside the tower waiting for us.” She explains, motioning for me to rise. I slip out of bed and a shiver runs through me. I’m in my griffon pajamas, and I jamb my feet into my slippers.

“Why is Luka here? What’s going on Professor?” I ask again starting to get really worried.

“Arthur Weasley has been attacked. Harry saw it happen. You’re to be going with the Weasley kids to St. Mungo’s with them.” She explains quickly hurrying me out of our room, and down the stairs a little to the fourth year dorms.

I stand there in horrified shock as Professor McGonagall disappears into the room. How did Harry see it happen? Not Arthur— oh poor Molly, and the twins, Ron, and Ginny. This is going to be heartbreaking for them. Why did it have to be Arthur, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s just the slightly muggle crazed man who is always quick with a smile and hug.

I don’t realize that there are tears falling down my cheeks until another body slams hard into mine, holding on for dear life. I wrap my arms just as tightly around Ginny almost unconsciously. I can feel her hot tears against my neck, and I tighten my grip around her stronger.

“She— she said dad…” Ginny gasps trying to communicate her worry. I nod my head.

“I know.” I whisper brokenly. McGonagall shifts uncomfortably in front of us.

“We must hurry girls. I must still get the boys.” She tells us gruffly, but not unkindly.

Ginny and I stumble numbly down the stairs after the professor coming to a stop in the common room as McGonagall quickly climbs the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. What happened to Arthur? Is he okay? He has to… I don’t think that I can lose another parent—

Ginny is sniffling still cuddled close to me, and I absently stroke her back. This is not what I expected to happen tonight. A few minutes Professor McGonagall comes hurrying back down the stairs with Fred and George stumbling behind her with pale shocked faces.

Upon seeing them Ginny runs over to Fred, and he wraps his arms around her. George comes over to me and pulls me into his side. I didn’t realize that I was so tense until he rubbed my arm. I allow more tears to fall now that I don’t have to be the strong one for Ginny.

“Come on. Quickly now.” Professor McGonagall says starting for the portrait hole.

“Wait— what about Ron?” I ask just realizing that he’s not here with us.

“He is waiting for you to arrive with Mr. Potter.” She says quickly. The four of us follow our head of house out of the common room and into the hallway of the castle. Standing outside with a stunned look on his face is Luka. His blue pajamas are a mess and his short brown hair is sticking up in all angles, with his glasses crooked on his nose.

I pull away from George and rush to him. I throw my arms around Luka, and he closes his arms around me in a tight hug. “Luka…” I whisper brokenly.

“I know.” He says understanding what I had wanted to convey to him. We both don’t know if we can handle losing anyone else close to us.

I hear more footsteps approaching and turn my gaze to see Professor Sprout hurry up the stairs with a shocked and bedraggled Ariana behind her. “Pomona thank you for bringing her in such short notice.” Professor McGonagall says with a tight nod. Ariana looks at the five of us with a bewildered look on her face.

She moves over to Luka and I with an uncomfortable look on her face. “Mr. Weasley is—” She starts but is cut off by Luka’s nod. Her face falls, and she grabs my hand giving it a tight squeeze.

“Come now, we’ve left them waiting long enough let hurry now.” Professor McGonagall says quickly starting up the staircase. We all follow numbly behind her as she leads us quickly through the halls to the staircase that will lead us to the Headmaster’s office. The gargoyle guarding the staircase grants us access without even having to be asked.

We quickly climb the stairs and into the office without a knock. When we enter I’m shocked to see Harry and Ron sitting in the office with a frantic Dumbledore who is muttering wildly to the paintings on the walls. Ariana’s eyes are glued on her grandfather, and I try to wrap my foggy head around Harry could have actually have seen the attack.

“Harry — what’s going on?” asks Ginny, who looks frightened. “Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad hurt —”

“Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix,” says Dumbledore before Harry can speak. “He has been taken to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you back to Sirius’s house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than the Burrow. You will meet your mother there.”

“How’re we going?” asks Fred, looking shaken. “Floo powder?”

“No,” says Dumbledore, “Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey.” He indicates the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. “We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back. . . . I wish to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you —”

There is a flash of flame in the very middle of the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floats gently to the floor.

“It is Fawkes’s warning,” says Dumbledore, catching the feather as it falls. “She must know you’re out of your beds. . . . Minerva, go and head her off — tell her any story —”

Professor McGonagall is gone in a swish of tartan.

“He says he’ll be delighted,” says a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas has reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner in his painting. “My great-great-grandson has always had odd taste in houseguests . . .”

My head is spinning with all the different information that’s going on in my head. There is too much and its beginning to give me a headache.

“Come here, then,” Dumbledore says to the Weasleys, Luka, Harry, Ariana, and me. “And quickly, before anyone else joins us . . .”

We all gather around his desk. “Grandfather…” Ariana says with a worried and confused look.

“The safest place for you right now my dear is with the Weasleys.” He tells her, and she swallows thickly with a nod of her head.

“You have all used a Portkey before?” asks Dumbledore, and we nod, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle. “Good. On the count of three then . . . one . . . two . . .”

“. . . three.”

I feel a powerful jerk behind my navel, the ground vanishes from beneath my feet, my hand is glued to the kettle; I am banging into the others as we all speed forward in a swirl of colors and a rush of wind, the kettle pulling us onward and then —

My feet hit the ground so hard that my knees buckle, the kettle clatters to the ground and somewhere close at hand a voice says, “Back again, the blood traitor brats, is it true their father’s dying . . . ?”

“OUT!” roars a second voice. I feel a sickening twist in my gut that isn’t from the Portkey.

I scramble to my feet and look around; we have arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light are the fire and one guttering candle, which illuminates the remains of a solitary supper.  Kreacher is disappearing through the door to the hall, looking back at us malevolently as he hitches up his loincloth; Sirius is hurrying towards us all, looking anxious. He is unshaven and still in his day clothes; there is also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.

“What’s going on?” he says, stretching out a hand to help Ginny up. “Phineas Nigellus said Arthur’s been badly injured —”

I reach my hand out and give Ariana a hand up. She takes it with a grateful smile, which I don’t return. Luka stumbles to his feet as well.

“Ask Harry,” says Fred.

“Yeah, I want to hear this for myself,” says George.

The twins, Ginny, Luka, Ariana, and I were stare at him. Kreacher’s footsteps have stopped on the stairs outside.

“We— we just want to know what happened Harry…” I say my voice catching.

“It was —” Harry begins; he looks even paler than before. “I had a — a kind of — vision . . .”

And he tells us all that he saw, how he was standing by in his vision watching as the giant snake attack Arthur in the dimly lit corridor. How there was nothing he could do. When Harry has finished, we continue to stare at him for a moment. I’m not sure what to make out of all of this. Harry just keeps changing in front of my eyes.

“Is Mum here?” says Fred, turning to Sirius.

“She probably doesn’t even know what’s happened yet,” says Sirius. “The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledore’s letting Molly know now.”

“We’ve got to go to St. Mungo’s,” says Ginny urgently. She looks around at her brothers, Luka, and me; we are of course still in our pajamas. “Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything — ?”

“Hang on, you can’t go tearing off to St. Mungo’s!” says Sirius. I shift nervously to my other foot. Sure Luka and I live with them, and we have for a while now, but that doesn’t exactly make us family, no matter how they see it.

“’Course we can go to St. Mungo’s if we want,” says Fred, with a mulish expression, “he’s our dad!”

“And how are you going to explain how you knew Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his wife know?”

“What does that matter?” says George hotly.

“It matters because we don’t want to draw attention to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that are happening hundreds of miles away!” says Sirius angrily.  “Have you any idea what the Ministry would make of that information?”

Fred and George look as though they could not care less what the Ministry makes of anything. Ron is still white-faced and silent. Ginny says, “Somebody else could have told us. . . . We could have heard it somewhere other than Harry . . .”

“Like who?” says Sirius impatiently. “Listen, your dad’s been hurt while on duty for the Order and the circumstances are fishy enough without his children knowing about it seconds after it happened, you could seriously damage the Order’s —”

“We don’t care about the dumb Order!” shouts Fred.

“It’s our dad dying we’re talking about!” yells George.

“Your father knew what he was getting into, and he won’t thank you for messing things up for the Order!” says Sirius angrily in his turn. “This is how it is — this is why you’re not in the Order — you don’t understand — there are things worth dying for!”

“Your Order can’t protect anyone! People die even if they belong with you!” I interject loudly. Sirius spins around to fix his dark eyes on me. From the look in them, I know that he knows that I’m think of more than Arthur when I speak, I’m thinking of my parents as well.

“Nothing is ever as simple as that Jamie.” He says calmly. Ariana pulls me closer to her and then over to Ginny. As soon as I’m near the girl, she latches her shaking hand onto me, and I breathe out a shaky breath. I hold her hand as tightly as I can, giving the blond girl a thankful look out of the corner of my eye.

“Easy for you to say, stuck here!” bellows Fred still stewing on the statement that set me off. “I don’t see you risking your neck!”

The little color remaining in Sirius’s face drains from it. He looks for a moment as though he would quite like to hit Fred, but when he speaks, it is in a voice of determined calm. “I know it’s hard, but we’ve all got to act as though we don’t know anything yet. We’ve got to stay put, at least until we hear from your mother, all right?”

Fred and George still look mutinous. Ginny, however tugs my hand, takes a few steps over to the nearest chair and sinks into it, with me beside her. I look at Ron, who makes a funny movement somewhere between a nod and shrug, and he and Harry sit down too. The twins glare at Sirius for another minute, then take seats on either side of Ginny and me. Luka sits next to Fred with Ariana next to him.

“That’s right,” says Sirius encouragingly, “come on, let’s all . . . let’s all have a drink while we’re waiting. Accio Butterbeer!”

He raises his wand as he speaks and nine bottles come flying towards us out of the pantry, skid along the table, scattering the debris of Sirius’s meal, and stop neatly in front of us. We all drink, and for a while the only sounds are those of the crackling of the kitchen fire and the soft thud of our bottles on the table.

This is like some gruesome nightmare that I can’t wake up from. Hasn’t enough bad stuff already happened to me and the people around me? The Weasleys have been my only hope that there would be some sort of family that can remain intact. If Arthur doesn’t make it— no I can’t think like that.

Suddenly a burst of fire in midair illuminates the dirty plates in front of us and as we give cries of shock, a scroll of parchment falls with a thud onto the table, accompanied by a single golden phoenix tail feather.

“Fawkes!” says Sirius at once, snatching up the parchment. “That’s not Dumbledore’s writing — it must be a message from your mother — here —”

He thrusts the letter into George’s hand, who rips it open and reads aloud, “Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St. Mungo’s now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum.”

George looks around the table. My heart falls at the sound of the message. That’s not at all encouraging to hear. Please Merlin let Arthur make it out alive. Not the sweet man who has been so nice to two orphans who have had nowhere else left to go. Please don’t take him as well…

Ginny tightens her grip on my hand that she hadn’t let go, and I realize that tears are falling down my face again.

“Still alive . . .” George says slowly. “But that makes it sound . . .”

He does not need to finish the sentence. It sounds to me too as though Arthur is hovering somewhere between life and death. Still exceptionally pale, Ron stares at the back of his mother’s letter as though it might speak words of comfort to him. Fred pulls the parchment out of George’s hands and reads it for himself, then looks up at Harry, his bottle is shaking in his hand. I can’t even think of something comforting to say at this point, my mind is in tatters.

If I had ever sat through a longer night than this one I can not remember it. Sirius suggests once that we all go to bed, but without any real conviction, and the Weasleys’ looks of disgust are answer enough. I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to. We mostly sit in silence around the table, watching the candle wick sinking lower and lower into liquid wax, now and then raising bottles to our lips, speaking only to check the time, to wonder aloud what is happening, and to reassure one another that if there is bad news, we would know straightaway, for Molly must long since have arrived at St. Mungo’s.

Fred falls into a doze, his head sagging sideways onto his shoulder. Ginny is curled like a cat on her chair, but her eyes are open with her head on my shoulder with my arm around her. Ron is sitting with his head in his hands, whether awake or asleep it is impossible to tell. Luka is cleaning the lenses of his glasses so much, that Ariana has to stop him, and hold his hand. And Harry and Sirius look at each other every so often.

I know that it is definitely awkward for Harry, Sirius, and Ariana to be intruders on the grief. It’s worse for Luka and me though for we’re in this weird limbo because we feel the grief but we’re technically not a part of it. The only thing there is left to do it wait— and wait we do.

And then, at ten past five in the morning by Ron’s watch, the door swings open and Molly enters the kitchen. She is extremely pale, but when we all turn to look at her, Fred, Ron, and Harry half-rising from their chairs, she gives a wan smile.

“He’s going to be all right,” she says, her voice weak with tiredness. “He’s sleeping. We can all go and see him later. Bill’s sitting with him now, he’s going to take the morning off work.”

Fred falls back into his chair with his hands over his face. George and Ginny get up, walk swiftly over to their mother, and hug her. Ron gives a very shaky laugh and downs the rest of his butterbeer in one.

“Breakfast!” says Sirius loudly and joyfully, jumping to his feet. “Where’s that accursed house-elf? Kreacher! KREACHER!”

But Kreacher does not answer the summons.

“Oh, forget it, then,” mutters Sirius, counting the people in front of him. “So it’s breakfast for — let’s see — ten . . . Bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea, and toast —”

I keep my eyes on Molly unsure what to do. I’m not sure whether a hug would be appropriate or not. It is a very personal moment for them. Luka seems to be having the same indecision as me when I catch his eye. Molly seems to have caught onto our plight though.

“Come here.” She says softly. I shakily get to me feet with my brother coming to my side. We approach her cautiously. She’s let go of George and Ginny so her arms are free now, and she pulls us into them with a tight squeeze. “You have just as much right to feel what you’re feeling as the others. It must have brought up some very scary feelings and emotions.” She whispers.

I stiffen in her grasp but she only tightens her hug. The guilt begins to suffocate me along with the grip. “He’ll be okay.” She finishes softly before releasing both of us with a kiss to the forehead. My hands are shaking. I don’t have the nerves or the strength to deal with anymore of this. I move over to the still seated Dumbledore and sink down into the spot Luka had occupied next to her, resting my head on her shoulder.

“Its okay… he’ll be okay.” She whispers soothingly and I nod my head silently. I just need to not feel for a while. These past few weeks have been incredibly straining.

Harry hurries over to the stove to help. However, he has barely taken plates from the dresser when Molly lifts them out of his hands and pulls him into a hug.

“I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t been for you, Harry,” she says in a muffled voice. “They might not have found Arthur for hours, and then it would have been too late, but thanks to you he’s alive and Dumbledore’s been able to think up a good cover story for Arthur being where he was, you’ve no idea what trouble he would have been in otherwise, look at poor Sturgis . . .”

I suck in a sharp breath from where we’re sitting nearby. Ariana grips my hand and runs soothing circles on the back of it.

She soon releases him to turn to Sirius and thank him for looking after her children through the night. Sirius says that he is very pleased to have been able to help, and hoped we will all stay with him as long as Arthur is in hospital.

“Oh, Sirius, I’m so grateful. . . . They think he’ll be there a little while and it would be wonderful to be nearer . . . Of course, that might mean we’re here for Christmas . . .”

“The more the merrier!” says Sirius with such obvious sincerity that Molly beams at him, throws on an apron, and begins to help with breakfast. I watch as Harry worriedly pulls Sirius into the pantry but I’m too tired at the moment to try and figure out what’s wrong with my friend. Luka collapses next to me, and I reach my other hand out for his.

“This has been quite the night…” He says softly. I snort softly not bothering to move my head.

“You can say that again. This is agonizing.” I say.

“Everything will be fine. Just you two wait and see. I have a feeling about this.” Ariana says in a forced light tone. I’m thankful for the girl for trying to lighten the mood but its still dark.

* * *

We sleep in for most of the morning. The minute Ginny, Ariana, and I had crawled into the beds that we had slept in during summer we were out like lights. Though when I woke up I did have a visitor in my bed. Ginny had climbed into my bed and snuggled close. I didn’t have the heart to move her because I could see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

Our trunks arrive from Hogwarts while we are eating lunch, so that we can dress as Muggles for the trip to St. Mungo’s. Ariana tried to beg off going saying that it was a family event, but Molly squashed that idea like a bug. Everybody except Harry is riotously happy and talkative as we change out of our robes into jeans and sweatshirts, and we greet Tonks and Mad-Eye, who have turned up to escort us across London, gleefully laughing at the bowler hat Mad-Eye is wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair is short and bright pink again, will attract far less attention on the underground.

Tonks is very interested in Harry’s vision of the attack on Arthur, something he is not remotely interested in discussing.

“There isn’t any Seer blood in your family, is there?” she inquires curiously, as we sit side by side on a train rattling towards the heart of the city.

“No,” says Harry, looking rather insulted. I smirk at that thinking of Harry and Professor Trelawney hanging out.

“No,” says Tonks musingly, “no, I suppose it’s not really prophecy you’re doing, is it? I mean, you’re not seeing the future, you’re seeing the present. . . . It’s odd, isn’t it? Useful, though . . .”

Harry does not answer; we get out at the next stop, a station in the very heart of London, and in the bustle of leaving the train he is able to allow Fred and George to get between himself and Tonks, who is leading the way. I follow along with Ginny and Ariana. Ginny is excited to see her father again. We all follow Tonks up the escalator, Moody clunking along at the back of the group, his bowler tilted low and one gnarled hand stuck in between the buttons of his coat, clutching his wand. Harry asks Mad-Eye where St. Mungo’s is hidden.

“Not far from here,” grunts Moody as we step out into the wintry air on a broad store-lined street packed with Christmas shoppers. He pushes Harry a little ahead of him and stumps along just behind. “Wasn’t easy to find a good location for a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough and we couldn’t have it underground like the Ministry — unhealthy. In the end they managed to get hold of a building up here. Theory was sick wizards could come and go and just blend in with the crowd . . .”

He seizes Harry’s shoulder to prevent them being separated by a gaggle of shoppers plainly intent on nothing but making it into a nearby shop full of electrical gadgets. My eyes have been wide as saucers looking at all the muggles and muggle technology around us. I had never been into the city before beside for King’s Cross, but from the natural and relaxed look on Ariana’s face she has been before.

“Here we go,” says Moody a moment later.

We have arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red brick department store called Purge and Dowse Ltd. The place has a shabby, miserable air; the window displays consist of a few chipped dummies with their wigs askew, standing at random and modeling fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on all the dusty doors read CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. I distinctly hear a large woman laden with plastic shopping bags say to her friend as they pass, “It’s never open, that place . . .”

“Right,” says Tonks, beckoning us forward to a window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly female dummy whose false eyelashes are hanging off and who is modeling a green nylon pinafore dress. “Everybody ready?”

Ready as I’ll ever be. We nod, clustering around her; Moody gives Harry another shove between the shoulder blades to urge him forward and Tonks leans close to the glass, looking up at the very ugly dummy and says, her breath steaming up the glass, “Wotcher . . . We’re here to see Arthur Weasley.”

For a split second, I think how absurd it is for Tonks to expect the dummy to hear her talking that quietly through a sheet of glass, when there are buses rumbling along behind her and all the racket of a street full of shoppers. Next second is raise an eyebrow as the dummy gives a tiny nod, beckons its jointed finger, and Tonks has seized Ginny and Mrs. Weasley by the elbows, steps right through the glass and vanishes.

Fred, George, and Ron step after them, and Ariana grabs Luka and I by our arms and we step through the glass next. Shortly after us Harry appears with Mad-Eye.

We have arrived in what seems to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sit upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests.  The room is scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of the patients are making very peculiar noises. A sweaty-faced witch in the center of the front row, who is fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the Daily Prophet, keeps letting off a high-pitched whistle as steam comes pouring out of her mouth, and a grubby-looking warlock in the corner clangs like a bell every time he moves, and with each clang his head vibrates horribly, so that he has to seize himself by the ears and hold it steady.

This is why Kingsley never took us here. He didn’t want us getting any ideas.

Witches and wizards in lime-green robes are walking up and down the rows, asking questions and making notes on clipboards like Umbridge’s. I notice the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and bone, crossed.

“Are they doctors?” he asks Ron quietly.

“Doctors?” says Ron, looking startled. “Those Muggle nutters that cut people up? Nah, they’re Healers.”

“Over here!” calls Mrs. Weasley over the renewed clanging of the warlock in the corner, and we follow her to the queue in front of a plump blonde witch seated at a desk marked INQUIRIES. The wall behind her is covered in notices and posters saying things like A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE ANTI-DON’TS UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED HEALER.

There is also a large portrait of a witch with long silver ringlets that is labeled:

DILYS DERWENT

  1. MUNGO'S HEALER 1722–1741



HEADMISTRESS OF HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, 1741–1768

Dilys is eyeing the Weasley party as though counting us; when I catch her eye she gives a tiny wink, walks sideways out of her portrait, and vanishes.

Meanwhile, at the front of the queue, a young wizard is performing an odd on-the-spot jig and trying, in between yelps of pain, to explain his predicament to the witch behind the desk.

“It’s these — ouch — shoes my brother gave me — ow — they’re eating my — OUCH — feet — look at them, there must be some kind of — AARGH — jinx on them and I can’t — AAAAARGH — get them off —”

He hops from one foot to the other as though dancing on hot coals.

“The shoes don’t prevent you reading, do they?” says the blonde witch irritably, pointing at a large sign to the left of her desk. “You want Spell Damage, fourth floor. Just like it says on the floor guide. Next!”

The wizard hobbles and prances sideways out of the way, the Weasley party moves forward a few steps and I read the floor guide:

ARTIFACT ACCIDENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ground Floor

(Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom crashes, etc.)

 

CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . First Floor

(Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.)

 

MAGICAL BUGS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Second Floor

(Contagious maladies, e.g., dragon pox, vanishing sickness,

scrofungulus)

 

POTION AND PLANT POISONING . . . . . . . . . . . . Third Floor

(Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable giggling, etc.)”

SPELL DAMAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fourth Floor

(Unliftable jinxes, hexes, and incorrectly applied charms, etc.)

 

VISITORS’ TEAROOM AND HOSPITAL SHOP . . . Fifth Floor

 

If you are unsure where to go, incapable of normal speech, or unable to remember why you are here, our Welcome Witch will be pleased to help.

 

A very old, stooped wizard with a hearing trumpet has shuffled to the front of the queue now.

“I’m here to see Broderick Bode!” he wheezes.

“Ward forty-nine, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time,” says the witch dismissively. “He’s completely addled, you know, still thinks he’s a teapot. . . . Next!”

A harassed-looking wizard is holding his small daughter tightly by the ankle while she flaps around his head using the immensely large, feathery wings that have sprouted right out the back of her romper suit. Well that is certainly interesting.

“Fourth floor,” says the witch in a bored voice, without asking, and the man disappears through the double doors beside the desk, holding his daughter like an oddly shaped balloon. “Next!”

Mrs. Weasley moves forward to the desk.

“Hello,” she says. “My husband, Arthur Weasley, was supposed to be moved to a different ward this morning, could you tell us — ?”

“Arthur Weasley?” says the witch, running her finger down a long list in front of her. “Yes, first floor, second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn ward.”

“Thank you,” says Mrs. Weasley. “Come on, you lot.”

We follow through the double doors and along the narrow corridor beyond, which is lined with more portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles full of candles that float up on the ceiling, looking like giant soapsuds. More witches and wizards in lime-green robes walk in and out of the doors we pass; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafts into the passageway as we pass one door, and every now and then we hear distant wailing. We climb a flight of stairs and enter the “Creature-Induced Injuries” corridor, where the second door on the right bear the words “DANGEROUS” DAI LLEWELLYN WARD: SERIOUS BITES. Underneath this is a card in a brass holder on which has been handwritten Healer-in-Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck, Trainee Healer: Augustus Pye.

I flinch undeservedly at the name Augustus, but I blame it on my frayed nerves.

“We’ll wait outside, Molly,” Tonks says. “Arthur won’t want too many visitors at once. . . . It ought to be just the family first.”

Mad-Eye growls his approval of this idea and sets himself with his back against the corridor wall, his magical eye spinning in all directions. Harry draws back too, but Molly reaches out a hand and pushed him through the door, saying, “Don’t be silly, Harry, Arthur wants to thank you, and don’t you even think of bowing out missy.”

She grabs Ariana by the front of her sweatshirt and pushes her in behind me. “Bossy isn’t she.” Ariana whispers with a slightly awed look on her face. I snort and shake my head. What an understatement that.

The ward is small and rather dingy as the only window is narrow and set high in the wall facing the door. Most of the light comes from more shining crystal bubbles clustered in the middle of the ceiling. The walls are of panelled oak and there is a portrait of a rather vicious-looking wizard on the wall, captioned URQUHART RACKHARROW, 1612–1697, INVENTOR OF THE ENTRAIL-EXPELLING CURSE.

There are only three patients.Arthur is occupying the bed at the far end of the ward beside the tiny window. I am pleased and relieved to see that he is propped up on several pillows and reading the Daily Prophet by the solitary ray of sunlight falling onto his bed. He looks around as we walk towards him and, seeing whom it is, beams.

“Hello!” he calls, throwing the Prophet aside. “Bill just left, Molly, had to get back to work, but he says he’ll drop in on you later . . .”

“How are you, Arthur?” asks Molly, bending down to kiss his cheek and looking anxiously into his face. “You’re still looking a bit peaky . . .”

“I feel absolutely fine,” says Arthur brightly, holding out his good arm to give Ginny a hug. “If they could only take the bandages off, I’d be fit to go home.”

“Why can’t they take them off, Dad?” asks Fred.

He lets Ginny go and looks at me expectantly. With a small smile I approach him, and give him a soft hug just like Ginny, extremely relieved that he feels good enough to give hugs. I retreat quickly though, not wishing to hurt him in any way.

“Well, I start bleeding like mad every time they try,” says Arthur cheerfully, reaching across for his wand, which lays on his bedside cabinet, and waving it so that eight extra chairs appear at his bedside to seat us all. “It seems there was some rather unusual kind of poison in that snake’s fangs that keeps wounds open. . . . They’re sure they’ll find an antidote, though, they say they’ve had much worse cases than mine, and in the meantime I just have to keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour. But that fellow over there,” he says, dropping his voice and nodding toward the bed opposite in which a man lays looking green and sickly and staring at the ceiling. “Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No cure at all.”

“A werewolf?” whispers Molly, looking alarmed. “Is he safe in a public ward? Shouldn’t he be in a private room?”

“It’s two weeks till full moon,” Arthur reminded her quietly. “They’ve been talking to him this morning, the Healers, you know, trying to persuade him he’ll be able to lead an almost normal life. I said to him — didn’t mention names, of course — but I said I knew a werewolf personally, very nice man, who finds the condition quite easy to manage . . .”

“What did he say?” asks George.

“Said he’d give me another bite if I didn’t shut up,” says Arthur sadly. “And that woman over there,” he indicates the only other occupied bed, which is right beside the door, “won’t tell the Healers what bit her, which makes us all think it must have been something she was handling illegally. Whatever it was took a real chunk out of her leg, very nasty smell when they take off the dressings.”

Well that’s just pleasant.

“So, you going to tell us what happened, Dad?” asks Fred, pulling his chair closer to the bed.

“Well, you already know, don’t you?” says Arthur, with a significant smile at Harry. “It’s very simple — I’d had a very long day, dozed off, got sneaked up on, and bitten.”

“Is it in the Prophet, you being attacked?” asks Fred, indicating the newspaper Arthur cast aside.

“No, of course not,” he says, with a slightly bitter smile, “the Ministry wouldn’t want everyone to know a dirty great serpent got —”

“Arthur!” says Molly warningly.

“— got — er — me,” Arthur says hastily, though I am quite sure that is not what he meant to say. “Its very good to see you again Ariana.” He says with a smile. Ariana smiles back at him.

“I’m grateful to see you’re okay sir.” She says happily. Before the topic can be completely dropped though the twins interject.

“So where were you when it happened, Dad?” asks George.

“That’s my business,” says Arthur, though with a small smile. He snatches up the Daily Prophet, shakes it open again and says, “I was just reading about Willy Widdershins’s arrest when you arrived. You know Willy turned out to be behind those regurgitating toilets last summer? One of his jinxes backfired, the toilet exploded, and they found him lying unconscious in the wreckage covered from head to foot in —”

“When you say you were ‘on duty,’” Fred interrupts in a low voice, “what were you doing?”

“You heard your father,” whispers Molly, “we are not discussing this here! Go on about Willy Widdershins, Arthur —”

“Well, don’t ask me how, but he actually got off on the toilet charge,” says Arthur grimly. “I can only suppose gold changed hands —”

“You were guarding it, weren’t you?” says George quietly. “The weapon? The thing You-Know-Who’s after?”

“George, be quiet!” snaps Molly. I chuckle softly. Leave it to the twins to be making such a big fuss.

“Anyway,” says Arthur in a raised voice, “this time Willy’s been caught selling biting doorknobs to Muggles, and I don’t think he’ll be able to worm his way out of it because according to this article, two Muggles have lost fingers and are now in St. Mungo’s for emergency bone regrowth and memory modification. Just think of it, Muggles in St. Mungo’s! I wonder which ward they’re in?”

And he looks eagerly around as though hoping to see a signpost. I laugh at that. He’s certainly getting better if he’s already hoping to see some muggles.

“Didn’t you say You-Know-Who’s got a snake, Harry?” asks Fred, looking at his father for a reaction. “A massive one? You saw it the night he returned, didn’t you?”

“That’s enough,” says Molly crossly. “Mad-Eye and Tonks are outside, Arthur, they want to come and see you. And you lot can wait outside,” she adds to her children and the rest of us. “You can come and say good-bye afterward. Go on . . .”

We troop back into the corridor. Mad-Eye and Tonks go in and close the door of the ward behind them. Fred raises his eyebrows.

“Fine,” he says coolly, rummaging in his pockets, “be like that. Don’t tell us anything.”

“Looking for these?” says George, holding out what looks like a tangle of flesh-colored string. I grin at that

“You read my mind,” says Fred, grinning. “Let’s see if St. Mungo’s puts Imperturbable Charms on its ward doors, shall we?”

He and George disentangle the string and separated eight Extendable Ears from each other. Fred and George hand them around. Harry hesitates to take one.

“Go on, Harry, take it! You saved Dad’s life, if anyone’s got the right to eavesdrop on him it’s you . . .”

“Okay, go!” Fred whispers. Ariana pushes close to me, and I feel heat creep to my cheeks.

The flesh-colored strings wriggle like long skinny worms, then snake under the door. For a few seconds I can hear nothing, then I hear Tonks whispering as clearly as though she is standing right beside me.

“. . . they searched the whole area but they couldn’t find the snake anywhere, it just seems to have vanished after it attacked you, Arthur. . . . But You-Know-Who can’t have expected a snake to get in, can he?”

“I reckon he sent it as a lookout,” growls Moody, “’cause he’s not had any luck so far, has he? No, I reckon he’s trying to get a clearer picture of what he’s facing and if Arthur hadn’t been there the beast would’ve had much more time to look around. So Potter says he saw it all happen?”

“Yes,” says Molly. She sounds rather uneasy. “You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been waiting for Harry to see something like this . . .”

“Yeah, well,” says Moody, “there’s something funny about the Potter kid, we all know that.” I glance at Harry and see him stiffen. I don’t like where this is going at all.

“Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I spoke to him this morning,” whispered Molly.

“’Course he’s worried,” growls Moody. “The boy’s seeing things from inside You-Know-Who’s snake. . . . Obviously, Potter doesn’t realize what that means, but if You-Know-Who’s possessing him —”

I jerk back shocked. Harry pulls back from his ear as well, to find all of us looking at him. Some of us have fearful looks on our faces, but I shake my head. Harry’s my friend. I would know if he’s been possessed by Voldemort… wouldn’t I?


	20. Christmas on the Closed Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 20- Christmas on the Closed Ward

 

Harry spent the rest of our visit to St. Mungo’s in silence and avoiding the rest of us. Ever since we overheard Mad-Eye’s assumption that Harry is possessed by Voldemort everyone has been a little on edge. I’m not sure exactly what everyone else is thinking, but I’m almost positive that the Dark Lord hasn’t possessed Harry at any time that I’ve known him.

Sure the boy is a little too headstrong sometimes for his own good, but nowhere does that dictate that that makes him possessed. He’s pale and almost sick looking while we’re taking the train in the underground. I’m still not sure that I like this whole idea of an underground train.

Ariana had teased me about being okay of riding in speeding mining carts to the bank vaults in Gringotts but not being able to handle an underground train. A muggle woman had given us a disturbed look when she overheard the riding around in mining carts part of our sentence.

Molly peppers Harry with worried questions to which he doesn’t answer just begs off as being tired. I wonder for the first time whether Harry had actually gotten any sleep last night. We were all up for a really long time. I would have thought that he slept, but I guess that everything that happened has been weighing on his conscience.

I’m worried about him. I know that I wouldn’t be okay if I heard someone say that they thought that I was being possessed by the world’s worst villain of all time. When we get back to 12 Grimmauld Place, Molly suggested that Harry lay down until it was time for lunch. Without too much protest he did so climbing the stairs silently.

With a worried look, Molly disappeared to the downstairs kitchen leaving the rest of us to do as we pleased. There was an awkward silence in the air. What exactly can you say when you hear something that big, and your friend is now acting like the living dead wandering around like he’s not even really there anymore?

Luka is the first to excuse himself claiming that there’s a book he had been wanting to read in the library here, and he climbs up the stairs vanishing himself. Fred and George mumble something about snack box orders and they disappear as well. “I’m gonna go get a snack…” Ron says gesturing to the stairs to the kitchen.

Soon its only Ginny, Ariana, and I left in the front room. “Are we not going to talk about what happened?” Ginny asks suddenly. I snap my gaze to her, and take in the serious look on her face.

“Despite everything that happened with Arthur I believe that Harry is not possessed.” I tell them.

“We’re not saying that he is.” Ariana defends, “All I’m saying is that we don’t know what’s going on. No one is talking to us and whatever little we overhear can be taken in different lights.”

“I wish that we knew what is really going on. That way we could truly help Harry.” Ginny states her brows furrowed together in thought.

I let out a sigh. “I just wish there was someway that we could help him.” I say softly. Ariana gives my hand a squeeze.

“Some things have to be done alone. Give him some space then try talking to him. I know that having some time to process new information is really very helpful.” She tells me.

“Come on lets do something. We can play a game.” Ginny suggests. Ariana grins and pulls me along as we move for the living room where we know there are some games stashed away there. 

* * *

 

Harry didn’t come down for lunch or dinner yesterday. He spent the entire time skulking in his room despite many attempts from Sirius, Ron, Molly, and me to get him to come back downstairs and rejoin the rest of us. It is safe to say that makes it a much gloomier affair than we had expected since the adults were confused as to Harry’s attitude, and we could not confess to overhearing their conversation in the hospital.

The next morning we all spent our time hanging up Christmas decorations in the gloomy house. Harry has yet again refused our invitations for him to join us. It takes both Luka and Ariana to hold me back from going upstairs and smacking some sense into the boy.

Sirius on the other hand has never seemed happier. He has been singing carols as he drapes holly and tinsel. Often he gets most of us to sing along terribly out of tune at the top of our lungs with him. There was a reason none of us ever tried out for the choir at Hogwarts.

At lunchtime we are much cheerier than usual, even though Harry refuses to come down at eat yet again. I can feel my blood begin to simmer at the thick boy. He at least needs to eat something in order for him to brood some more. Molly warns all of us to just leave him alone, and she sets us straight back off to work again at making and putting up Christmas decorations.

I’m not sure if this is worse than we were originally cleaning the house. It seems like she wishes for every room to look at least a little less gloomy than it had before. It’s not till six in the evening when the doorbell rings that things change. After Molly had shooed away Fred, George, and Sirius who had wanted to open the door, she did so herself.

There standing at the door was Hermione of all people clutching her trunk in one hand and the carrier that holds Crookshanks in the other. “Mione!” I cry pleased when I see her. She grins at me, her cheeks red from the cold.

“Hermione dear, what are you doing here? We weren’t expecting you this holiday.” Molly says pleasantly hugging the girl as she steps into the warm house.

“Well I obviously freaked out when I woke up and didn’t see Jamie in her bed, after I couldn’t find anyone I heard the news about Mr. Weasley being attacked. I couldn’t exactly leave before the end of term, but as soon as it was over… well here I am.” She says with a sheepish smile.

I grin at the girl shocked and happy to see her here. I wasn’t expecting to get to see Hermione again until we were going back for the second term. “Well we’re always happy to have you here dear. You’ll be rooming with the girls again like last time. I was just going to make sandwiches for dinner…” Molly says before she’s cut off.

“Sandwiches are fine Mrs. Weasley. I’d really like to relax and say hello to everyone.” Hermione says with a smile. Molly nods her head and starts leading the three of us back further into the house.

“Of course. I’ll make you all some and bring them up to the boys room. I started a fire in there, and maybe you can coax Harry into joining you. I swear that boy has been so stubborn and has yet to come down for a good day. I’ll make some more just in case…” She says descending the stairs to the kitchen. Hermione raises her eyebrow at that and gives me a questioning look. I sigh and follow Hermione up the stairs.

“We overheard Mad-Eye, Tonks, Arthur, and Molly talking yesterday when we went to visit Arthur. We used the Extendable Ears to listen in on their conversation. Long story short Mad-Eye suggested that Harry may be possessed by Voldemort.” I say quickly trying to ignore Hermione’s wince.

“Well no wonder he’s kept himself cooped up. I’ll go talk to him and get him down here.” She says dropping her trunk in front of her bed, and marching up the stairs as I direct her to the above floors.

I sigh and shake my head pushing open the door to the boys’ room seeing Ron and Ginny sitting on Ron’s bed. Their heads whip up in a panic but seeing that it’s only me they sigh in relief. Well I guess that I’m not the only one who’s worried about how Harry is going to react to seeing us all again after his long time being sequestered away.

“Hermione’s going to go and get him.” I say simply. Ron pales slightly but Ginny just nods her head firmly.

We wait in nervous silence before we hear footsteps approaching. The door to the room opens again with Hermione coming in with a very brooding Harry behind her.

“I came on the Knight Bus,” says Hermione airily, pulling off her jacket before Harry has time to speak. “Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing yesterday morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. Mungo’s, and he’d given you all permission to visit. So . . .”

She sits down next to Ginny, and the two girls and Ron look up at Harry. I stiffen my stance next to their bed with my arms crossed against my chest tightly.

“How’re you feeling?” asks Hermione.

“Fine,” says Harry stiffly.

“Bull.” I snort, and Harry shoot me a withering glare, which I return easily.

“Oh, don’t lie, Harry,” Hermione says impatiently. “Jamie, Ron, and Ginny say you’ve been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo’s.”

“They do, do they?” says Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looks down at his feet but Ginny seems quite unabashed.

“Well, you have!” Ginny says. “And you won’t look at any of us!”

“Can’t stand to breathe the same air.” I mumble.

“It’s you lot who won’t look at me!” says Harry angrily.

“Maybe you’re taking it in turns to look and keep missing each other,” suggests Hermione, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“Very funny,” snaps Harry, turning away.

“Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,” says Hermione sharply. “Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears —”

“Yeah?” growls Harry, his hands deep in his pockets as he watches the snow now falling thickly outside. “All been talking about me, have you? Well, I’m getting used to it . . .”

“We wanted to talk to you, Harry,” says Ginny, “but as you’ve been hiding ever since we got back —”

“I didn’t want anyone to talk to me,” says Harry sharply.

“Well, that was a bit stupid of you,” says Ginny angrily, “seeing as you don’t know anyone but me who’s been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels.”

I wince sharply and glance at the girl in anguish. I could never forget that night in second year. We weren’t as close back then as we are now, but after seeing her like that and hearing her talk about in to me years later, well it still makes my sking crawl.

Ron is still drawing a blank look, but Hermione catches onto the exchange, and quickly gets up dragging me into the spot next to the redheaded girl. I quickly grab her hand not sure whether its for her or for me at this point.

Harry remains quite still as the impact of these words hit him. Then he turns on the spot to face her.

“I forgot,” he says.

“Lucky you,” says Ginny coolly. I squeeze her hand tightly but she doesn’t take her eyes off of Harry.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and he looks like he means it. “So . . . so do you think I’m being possessed, then?”

“Well, can you remember everything you’ve been doing?” Ginny asks. “Are there big blank periods where you don’t know what you’ve been up to?”

Harry racks his brains.

“No,” he says.

“Then You-Know-Who hasn’t ever possessed you,” says Ginny simply. “When he did it to me, I couldn’t remember what I’d been doing for hours at a time. I’d find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.” She lets out a shaky breath after that and I press myself closer to her. She squeezes my hand in thanks.

“That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though —”

“Harry, you’ve had these dreams before,” Hermione says. “You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year.”

“This was different,” says Harry, shaking his head. “I was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake. . . . What if Voldemort somehow transported me to London — ?” Well that is certainly interesting.

“One day,” says Hermione, sounding thoroughly exasperated, “you’ll read Hogwarts: A History, and perhaps that will remind you that you can’t Apparate or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn’t just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry.”

“You didn’t leave your bed, mate,” says Ron. “I saw you thrashing around in your sleep about a minute before we could wake you up . . .”

I watch slowly as the realization dawns over Harry’s face. Once I’m sure that he has had sufficient enough time to let that good news take hold, I get up from the bed, and approach him. Before Harry can ask what’s wrong I whack him across the back of the head.

“Ow…” Harry protests rubbing his head with a pout on his face. “What was that for Jamie?”

“For being a giant git this last day and worrying me.” I say simply to the delight of the chuckling people behind me.

At that exact moment Sirius walked past the room singing “God Rest Ye merry Hippogriffs” at the top of his lungs. We burst into more laughter, and I grin around at the people in the room beginning to feel like Christmas is truly upon us. 

* * *

 

Christmas is definitely something big to celebrate this year. The joy was positively infectious.

Sirius’s delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, is infectious. He is no longer their sullen host of the summer; now he seems determined that everyone should enjoy ourselves as much, if not more, than we would have done at Hogwarts, and he works tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with our help, so that by the time we all go to bed on Christmas Eve the house is barely recognizable.

The tarnished chandeliers are no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glitter in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocks Sirius’s family tree from view; and even the stuffed elf heads on the hall wall wear Father Christmas hats and beards.

On Christmas morning I woke up to the excited sounds of wrapping paper being torn, and I lean up on my elbows to see Ginny grinning madly while ripping into her presents. Hermione was sitting cross-legged on her bed inspecting the back of a book she was given.

I glance on my left and see that Ariana is reading from a scroll with an unreadable look on her face. It must be from her grandfather. I look at the foot of my bed to see a small but reasonable pile of present there.

“About time you woke up!” Ginny exclaims excitably bouncing onto my bed, almost squashing me.

“Umph… that was my leg…” I groan, and Ginny roll her eyes, before popping another Bertie Botts Every Flavored Bean in her mouth. She chews for a second before making a face.

“Eww… soap flavored…” She groans. Hermione snorts over from her bed.

“Serves you right.” I grumble poking her in the ribs, causing a squeak to emit from the girl. She glares at me dirtily.

“I was going to thank you for the totally awesome dragon that you made me, but now I’m going to take it back. Sparks is too awesome to humble himself to the level of merely mortals like you.” She says seriously nodding to the purple knit dragon that’s perched on her shoulder, nuzzling her.

I roll my eyes at that. “You’re welcome Ginny, now why don’t you go and open some more of your gifts, I still see some left under all that mess…” I say gesturing to the paper wonderland that was once the girl’s bed.

That sufficiently distracts the girl, enough for me to try and work the feeling back into the leg she had sat on. “Thanks for the book on famous Arithmancers Jamie, I’m sure this will come in handy during my career.” Hermione beams, I smile back at her with a nod of my head.

Mostly when I’m shopping for her, I pick one of the ones I can’t understand the most in a field she enjoys, and buy that. I pick up one of my presents, and glance over at Ariana again. She has the scroll rolled up again, and I can see the glassy look in her eyes. I slip out of my bed, stumbling a bit when my foot gets caught in the blanket making my way over to her.

I perch lightly on the edge of her bed, and rub my thumb over the back of her hand. She perks up and turns to look at me. I give her a soft smile. “So… what’d he say?” I ask. Ariana sighs, and slumps against me.

“Just that things have been really hectic lately, and that staying away from me— from all of us is for our own good. He said that he was proud of the beautiful young woman that I was turning into, and to keep my eye out for you guys. So… pretty much the same.” She sniffs.

I rub my hand along her back comfortingly wishing not for the first time that Professor Dumbledore would just visit his granddaughter for a little bit. “Well he doesn’t know what he’s missing by not being here with you. I will tell you this though, I am very happy that I’ve gotten to spend my Christmas with you.” I admit softly.

I hear noise from the other side of the room which sounds awfully a lot like Hermione dragging a protesting Ginny from the room. A slight pink blush spreads across the blond girl’s cheeks. “Really?” She asks.

My mouth has suddenly dried out and I nod my head. A smile spreads out across her face and she leans closer to me. “I’m really happy that I get to spend it with you too Jamie.” She says. It might just be my imagination but it seems like she’s getting closer…

My heart is jackhammering in my throat and I can feel my cheeks flaming. She draws even closer to my face. I can’t decipher what exactly is in her eyes but its definitely something exciting. Ariana lets out a shaky breath and leans in— CRACK!

“OH! MY EYES!” A yelp sounds from the body that had thudded on the floor. The loud noise and shout startles me so much from the precarious position on the bed that I tumble over backwards onto the floor.

“You git get out of here!” Ariana yells shooting her pillow at Fred’s head. He’s still so stunned that it hits him in the head.

“I’m sorry— I didn’t think that I was interrupting something!” He cries shielding his head from more projectiles before stumbling out of the room. I groan from my spot on the floor rubbing my backside. That had hurt.

Ariana leans down over the edge of the bed with a guilty look on her face. “Jamie! You okay? I…um…I-I…” She stammers before scrambling off the bed and fleeing out of the room with a flaming red face. I drop my head against the floor, and let out the breath of air I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding.

What on earth was that? Was Ariana going to kiss me? Did she want to kiss me? Do I want to kiss her?

“If you keep thinking any harder, your head’s going to explode.” Hermione voice cuts through my silent freak out. She sticks out her hand to help me up, and I accept it. There’s a solemn expression on her face, and she sits down on Ariana’s bed, and I collapse down onto mine, next to my forgotten presents.

“Do you want to talk about it now Jamie?” She asks me. I bite down on my lip for a moment, before slowly nodding my head. Hermione stays silent letting me decide when exactly I want to open up. After a few minutes I finally steel myself.

“Ariana tried to kiss me.” I admit in a small voice. Hermione nods her head, and I’m not very surprised to see that she’s not all that shocked about this.

“So… what you feel?” She asks me hesitantly. I try to swallow but my throat is way past dry at this point.

“W-well we didn’t exactly kiss but… I-I wasn’t going to stop her.” I say shakily. I glance up at Hermione quickly waiting for the bad reaction but nothing of any sort comes from her. In fact she stays so quiet that it makes me start to ramble. “I-I mean she’s pretty, and nice, and she’s really funny… she makes me feel good to be around her…”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at my reaction there. “That sounds like an awful lot like you may think of her as more than a friend.” She tells me softly. I freeze for a second and my mind starts whirring trying to fit together all my feelings to make some sort of sense out of them.

There’s only one conclusion that keeps popping up. “I like Ariana.” I breathe. Hermione lights up across from me, and practically flings herself down next to me.

“I knew it! I’ve been waiting forever for you to get your head out of you arse and admit it! Ah! This is so exciting!” She squeals shaking me back and forth in her grip.

“But— how do you know that she likes me?” I demand quickly. Hermione scoffs and pulls me back so that she can look me straight in the eye.

“For someone as smart as you are Jamie Pendragon you sure as hell are daft sometimes. Ariana just tried to kiss you. If that doesn’t say that she likes you, then the years of trailing around in your wake like a little puppy is more than enough evidence of her feelings to you.” She states. I feel my jaw drop, as I try to go back over the past few years in my mind.

“The only question now, is when you’re going to tell her. I swear Jamie if you make me wait another five years for that to happen, then I will kill you.” Hermione threatens, before jumping up and doing a little happy dance.

I like Ariana Dumbledore. Ariana Dumbledore likes me back. Well I assume stranger things have happened before. 

* * *

 

When I’m finally able to pull myself back together in some sort of working order, I finally get my presents open, happy with what I find. My Weasley sweater this year is the same steel blue of my eyes and I happily pull it on before venturing out of my room and into the chaos that always seems to follow this particular group of people around.

I manage to make my way into the boys room to see that my brother is missing, so I assume that he is somewhere with Ariana. Harry and Ron are looking over all their presents. It was really simple to get them presents. Broom maintenance kits, and posters of famous Quidditch players keeps them happy enough. Though Ron is scowling at the gag gift that I had gotten him which is a poster of Viktor Krum on a broom.

“You should have just saved you money Jamie.” Ron says, “Though I do rather look forward to burning this.” He says with a grin on his face. I shrug my shoulders, and drop down onto Harry’s bed beside him.

Suddenly Fred and George both apparate in the room and Fred still has quite the blush on his face. I advert my eyes and refuse to look at the boy. This is extremely awkward for we usually get along famously.

“Merry Christmas,” says George. “Don’t go downstairs for a bit.”

“Why not?” says Ron.

“Mum’s crying again,” says Fred heavily. “Percy sent back his Christmas jumper.”

“Without a note,” adds George. “Hasn’t asked how Dad is or visited him or anything . . .”

“We tried to comfort her,” says Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry’s portrait. “Told her Percy’s nothing more than a humongous pile of rat droppings —”

“— didn’t work,” says George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. “So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.”

“What’s that supposed to be anyway?” asks Fred, squinting at the painting. “Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.”

“It’s Harry!” says George, pointing at the back of the picture. “Says so on the back!”

“Good likeness,” says Fred, grinning. I raise my eyebrow at that. Dobby Harry mouths. Harry throws his new homework diary at him; it hits the wall opposite and falls to the floor where it says happily, “If you’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s then you may do whatever you please!”

We finally decide to join the rest of the house; we can hear various inhabitants of the house calling “Merry Christmas” to each other. On our way downstairs we meet Hermione. I swear she is in too good of a mood from our conversation. “Thanks for the book, Harry!” she says happily. “I’ve been wanting that New Theory of Numerology for ages! And that perfume is really unusual, Ron.”

“No problem,” says Ron. “Who’s that for anyway?” he adds, nodding at the neatly wrapped present she is carrying.

“Kreacher,” says Hermione brightly.

“It had better not be clothes!” says Ron warningly. “You know what Sirius said, Kreacher knows too much, we can’t set him free!”

“It isn’t clothes,” says Hermione, “although if I had my way I’d certainly give him something to wear other than that filthy old rag. No, it’s a patchwork quilt, I thought it would brighten up his bedroom.”

“What bedroom?” says Harry, dropping his voice to a whisper as we are passing the portrait of Sirius’s mother.

“Well, Sirius says it’s not so much a bedroom, more a kind of — den,” says Hermione. “Apparently he sleeps under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen.”

Molly is the only person in the basement when we arrive there. She is standing at the stove and sounds as though she has a bad head cold when she wishes us Merry Christmas, and we all avert our eyes though I do give her a quick hug.

“So, this is Kreacher’s bedroom?” says Ron, strolling over to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry which I have never seen open.

“Yes,” says Hermione, now sounding a little nervous. “Er . . . I think we’d better knock . . .”

Ron raps the door with his knuckles but there is no reply.

“He must be sneaking around upstairs,” he says, and without further ado pulls open the door. “Urgh.”

I peer inside. Most of the cupboard is taken up with a very large and old-fashioned boiler, but in the foot’s space underneath the pipes Kreacher has made himself something that looks like a nest. A jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets are piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle of it shows where Kreacher curls up to sleep every night. Here and there among the material are stale bread crusts and moldy old bits of cheese. In a far corner glints small objects and coins that I guess Kreacher saved, magpielike, from Sirius’s purge of the house, and he has also managed to retrieve the silver-framed family photographs that Sirius threw away over the summer.

Their glass might be shattered, but still the little black-and-white people inside them peer haughtily up at me, including — he feel a little jolt in my stomach — the dark, heavy-lidded woman who is the sweetheart of my uncle Augustus: Bellatrix Lestrange. By the looks of it, hers is Kreacher’s favorite photograph; he has placed it to the fore of all the others and has mended the glass clumsily with Spellotape.

“I think I’ll just leave his present here,” says Hermione, laying the package neatly in the middle of the depression in the rags and blankets and closing the door quietly. “He’ll find it later, that’ll be fine . . .”

“Come to think of it,” says Sirius, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as we close the cupboard door, “has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?”

“I haven’t seen him since the night we came back here,” says Harry. “You were ordering him out of the kitchen.”

“Yeah . . .” says Sirius, frowning. “You know, I think that’s the last time I saw him, too. . . . He must be hiding upstairs somewhere . . .”

“He couldn’t have left, could he?” says Harry. “I mean, when you said ‘out,’ maybe he thought you meant, get out of the house?”

“No, no, house-elves can’t leave unless they’re given clothes, they’re tied to their family’s house,” says Sirius.

“So he’s lurking around here somewhere.” I say with a slight shiver. There’s something about that elf that serious creeps me out.

“They can leave the house if they really want to,” Harry contradicts him. “Dobby did, he left the Malfoys’ to give me warnings three years ago. He had to punish himself afterward, but he still managed it.”

Sirius looks slightly disconcerted for a moment, then says, “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old bloomers or something. . . . Of course, he might have crawled into the airing cupboard and died. . . . But I mustn’t get my hopes up . . .”

Fred, George, and Ron laugh; Hermione, however, looks reproachful.

Once we have had our Christmas lunch, the Weasleys and the rest of us besides Sirius are planning to pay Arthur another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye and Lupin. Mundungus turns up in time for Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to “borrow” a car for the occasion, as the Underground does not run on Christmas Day. The car, which I doubt has been taken with the knowledge or consent of its owner, has a similar Enlarging Spell put upon it as the Weasleys’ old Ford Anglia; although normally proportioned outside, fourteen people with Mundungus driving are able to fit into it quite comfortably.

Its very awkward for how the seating arrangement ended up I was stuck squeezed between Fred and Ariana, which had all of the three of us with a blush on our faces for the entire ride there.

The journey to St. Mungo’s is quite quick, as there is very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards are creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. We get out of the car, and Mundungus drives off around the corner to wait for us; we stroll casually towards the window where the dummy in green nylon stands, then, one by one, step through the glass. If I’m not seeing things then Molly looks oddly nervous, as she keeps glancing at all of us children, like she’s making sure that we’re all there.

The reception area looks pleasantly festive: The crystal orbs that illuminate St. Mungo’s have been turned to red and gold so that they become gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hangs around every doorway, and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glitter in every corner, each topped with a gleaming gold star. It is less crowded than the last time we were there, although halfway across the room I find myself shunted aside by a witch with a walnut jammed up her left nostril.

“Family argument, eh?” smirks the blonde witch behind the desk. “You’re the third I’ve seen today . . . Spell Damage, fourth floor . . .”

We find Arthur propped up in bed with the remains of his turkey dinner on a tray in his lap and a rather sheepish and nervous expression on his face. Molly hurries right up to him, but there’s a rather distracted look on her face.

“Do you have them Molly?” Arthur asks her urgently completely ignoring the rest of us. I glance around the room wondering if someone is going to tell us exactly what’s going on here.

To my shock all the Weasley kids have these sort of smug looks on their faces, and they keep fighting to keep their smiles at bay. Okay what exactly is going on here. Harry and Hermione look just as clueless as I do though, as well as Luka and Ariana. So this must be some sort of family matter that none of the rest of us were notified of.

Finally the elder Weasleys stop quietly bickering and Mrs. Weasley produces out of her hand bag two thin packages tied with red string. Arthur clears his throat nervously and that gets the rest of us to focus back on them. Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny are almost vibrating now. I glance at the eldest Weasley kid and see that Bill is smiling happily as well.

There really must be something big happening here. Maybe they’ve gotten Harry a present to thank him for saving Arthur’s life. “Well I’m grateful to see you all again today! I am feeling much better I assure you, but we have two more presents that need to be given today, and Molly dear was kind enough to save them until we were all together so that I could be apart of this moment as well.” He says with a big smile.

“So we have two more presents that have to be given out, and they are very special. Luka, Jamie these are for you.” Molly says softly pushing the two identical packages across Arthur’s bed to us. I freeze for a moment with wide eyes. Another present? I already got my jumper. I glance at Luka and see that he feels the same way in an identical jumper to mine.

“Y-you didn’t have to get us another present…” I stammer.

“Yes, we’re already quite pleased with our jumpers.” Luka agrees fingering the soft warm fabric.

Arthur and Molly smile encouragingly at us though, and I swear that one of the twins is going to explode at any moment. They can’t seem to fight off the giant grins on their faces. “Go ahead, open them.” Arthur encourages. I glance at my brother again and we silently agree that we might as well give in.

I reach out with shaking hands and grab the box that closer to me. When Luka has his in his hands as well I start unraveling the red string holding the plain brown box shut. Once it is off I carefully lift the lid to reveal what’s inside. I’m confused for a moment, because nestled safely inside are legal documents. I flick my gaze up to them confused at why they got me official documents.

Luka on the other hand gasps loudly, and almost drops his box. I look over at him worriedly and see that he has the same documents as mine only his has his name on it. “Luka?” I ask worriedly inching closer to him. This is always how the two of us have been with each other.

“Jamie… look.” He says pointing a shaking finger at a line of the text.

 

We Hereby Grant Full Legal Custody of:

Jamie Pendragon

Luka Pendragon

 

To Arthur Weasley and Molly Weasley in the form of Adoption.

 

There are blank spaces under the statement in which both Arthur and Molly have to sign. They are blank at the moment but the implication behind them is clear as day.

“W-when?” I manage to ask looking up from my document with tears already beginning to fill my eyes. The looks on their faces are filled with such love that it shocks me.

“We filed in the summer. There were a lot of legal implications to work through but we got these papers back about a month ago.” Molly says with tears in her eyes as well.

“Mum and Dad asked us all about it back before school started.” George bursts out not being able to contain himself anymore. I whip my head over to him to see the huge grin still present on his face. All of them are smiling at it.

“Yeah they were all real serious about it like they were worried we’d actually say no.” Fred says rolling his eyes.

“You actually managed to keep your mouth shut about this for this long?” Luka says to Ron with a shocked look on his face. Ron grins a very cheeky grin at that.

“I had to get one over you eventually Lou.” Ron replies.

“Well, am I finally getting a sister or am I not?” Ginny says not being able to wait any longer.

I hear shocked gasps coming from Harry, Hermione, and Ariana who have finally figured out what exactly is going on here from that statement.

“What am I chopped liver?” Luka says but it’s strangled for he’s choked up. I pry my gaze away from the kids and back to Arthur and Molly.

“Are you serious?” I ask lifting up my box with my still shaky hand. Both of them are nodding before I even finish my sentence.

“Oh course sweetheart.” Molly says.

“We Weasley’s never joke about such serious things.” Arthur says with a smile. I glance back at my brother again and I can see how much this means to him as well. We would finally belong to a family again. That’s not something that we have felt in about eleven years or so.

Luka nods his head slightly, and I return it. I can’t help myself at that, I start to cry. This is probably the best and most thoughtful Christmas present that I have ever received.

“Yes.” Luka manages to get out, and I just nod my head a lot. The loud cheer that comes up from the family may as well have been a roar from all the dirty looks we receive from the other patients. There’s a flurry of movement after that. I am squashed in so many hugs that I’m not exactly sure who exactly is hugging me anymore. There’s Fred, then Bill, then, Ron, George, Ginny, and finally I find myself stuck in Molly’s strong grasp as she cries as well.

I can see out of the corner of my eye that Hermione and Ariana are crying as well, and that Harry has a melancholy smile on his face. He knows what a huge deal it is to finally get a family. Yet he still doesn’t have one of his own that loves him no matter what, but he has us, and that means a lot still. Arthur grabs my hand and squeezes it strongly. I smile down at him, and he beams back teary as well.

“Now you two will still be Pendragons for we believe that its important for you two to still have that piece of you parents with you, but legally you two are our children just as much as any of those troublemakers over there.” Arthur says. I smile at that, happy to still get to hold onto my original parents. I catch Luka’s eye and see that’s he’s just as happy as I am at the turn of events.

I’m pretty sure that we couldn’t have asked for any better parents or family to be apart of. I think that our parents would approve of this wholeheartedly. Once the chaos quiets down, I’m sitting beside Ginny as she keeps a tight grip of my hand. She’s ecstatic that we are officially her siblings, and that I’m her sister.

Arthur and Molly had signed both of our documents, and that had made the limbo feeling that I had been dealing with close permanently. I belonged somewhere, and he is where I belonged. After a moment of silence Molly looked at Arthur seriously.

It is now time for Arthur to open his gifts.

“Everything all right, Arthur?” asks Molly.

“Fine, fine,” says Arthur, a little too heartily. “You — er — haven’t seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?”

“No,” says Mrs. Weasley suspiciously, “why?”

“Nothing, nothing,” says Mr. Weasley airily, starting to unwrap his pile of gifts. “Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry — this is absolutely wonderful —”

For he has just opened Harry’s gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers. Molly does not seem entirely satisfied with his answer. As her husband leans over to shake Harry’s hand, she peers at the bandaging under his nightshirt.

“Arthur,” she says, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, “you’ve had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn’t need doing until tomorrow.”

“What?” says Arthur, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. “No, no — it’s nothing — it’s — I —”

He seems to deflate under Molly’s piercing gaze. I just signed on for a lifetime of that, maybe I should have reconsidered that part of the deal a little more.

“Well — now don’t get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea. . . . He’s the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in . . . um . . . complementary medicine. . . . I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies . . . well, they’re called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on — on Muggle wounds —”

Molly lets out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolls away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who has no visitors and is looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Arthur; Bill mutters something about getting himself a cup of tea and Fred, George, and Luka leap up to accompany him, grinning. I see that Luka knows to run when she gets like this now.

“Do you mean to tell me,” says Molly, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors are scurrying for cover, “that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?”

“Not messing about, Molly, dear,” says Arthur imploringly. “It was just — just something Pye and I thought we’d try — only, most unfortunately — well, with these particular kinds of wounds — it doesn’t seem to work as well as we’d hoped —”

“Meaning?”

“Well . . . well, I don’t know whether you know what — what stitches are?”

“It sounds as though you’ve been trying to sew your skin back together,” says Molly with a snort of mirthless laughter, “but even you, Arthur, wouldn’t be that stupid —”

“I fancy a cup of tea too,” says Harry, jumping to his feet.

Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Ariana, and I almost sprint to the door with him. As it swings closed behind us, we hear Molly shriek, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT’S THE GENERAL IDEA?”

“Typical Dad,” says Ginny, shaking her head as we set off up the corridor.  “Stitches . . . I ask you . . .”

“So too late to change my mind now right?” I chuckle weakly. The dirty glare that I get from Ron and Ginny has me holding my hands up in peace. My siblings… I never thought that I would get to say that about anyone other than Luka, but I guess that’s changed now.

“Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,” says Hermione fairly. “I suppose something in that snake’s venom dissolves them or something. . . . I wonder where the tearoom is?”

“Fifth floor,” says Harry, remembering the sign over the Welcome Witch’s desk.

We walk along the corridor through a set of double doors and find a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As we climb it, the various Healers call out to us, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron is seriously affronted when a medieval wizard calls out that he clearly has a bad case of spattergroit.

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asks angrily, as the Healer pursues him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.

“’Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now —”

“Watch who you’re calling gruesome!” says Ron, his ears turning red.

“The only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked by the full moon in a barrel of eels’ eyes —”

“I have not got spattergroit!”

“But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master —”

“They’re freckles!” says Ron furiously. “Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!”

He rounds on the rest of us, who are all keeping determinedly straight faces.

“What floor’s this?”

“I think it’s the fifth,” says Hermione.

“Nah, it’s the fourth,” says Harry, “one more —”

But as he steps onto the landing he comes to an abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the double doors that mark the start of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man is peering out at us all with his nose pressed against the glass. He has wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a broad vacant smile that reveals dazzlingly white teeth.

“Blimey!” says Ron, also staring at the man.

“And I was having such a good day.” I groan.

“Oh my goodness,” says Hermione suddenly, sounding breathless. “Professor Lockhart!”

Our ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher pushes open the doors and moves towards us, wearing a long lilac dressing gown.

“Well, hello there!” he says. “I expect you’d like my autograph, would you?”

“Hasn’t changed much, has he?” Harry mutters to Ginny, who grins.

“I prefer the rude portraits.” I decide.

“Er — how are you, Professor?” says Ron, sounding slightly guilty. It was Ron’s malfunctioning wand that had damaged Professor Lockhart’s memory so badly that he landed here in the first place, though, as Lockhart was attempting to permanently wipe Harry, Ron’s, and my memories at the time, my sympathy is nonexistent.

“I’m very well indeed, thank you!” says Lockhart exuberantly, pulling a rather battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. “Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!”

“Er — we don’t want any at the moment, thanks,” says Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who asks, “Professor, should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn’t you be in a ward?”

The smile fades slowly from Lockhart’s face. For a few moments he gazes intently at Harry, then he says, “Haven’t we met?”

“Er . . . yeah, we have,” says Harry. “You used to teach us at Hogwarts, remember?”

“Teach?” repeats Lockhart, looking faintly unsettled. “Me? Did I?”

I shoot Ariana an amused look and she mirrors it back to me. She didn’t much like him as a professor either.

And then the smile reappears upon his face so suddenly it is rather alarming.  “Taught you everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen, you can give them to all your little friends then and nobody will be left out!”

But just then a head pokes out of a door at the far end of the corridor and a voice says, “Gilderoy, you naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?”

A motherly looking Healer wearing a tinsel wreath in her hair comes bustling up the corridor, smiling warmly at six of us.

“Oh Gilderoy, you’ve got visitors! How lovely, and on Christmas Day too! Do you know, he never gets visitors, poor lamb, and I can’t think why, he’s such a sweetie, aren’t you?”

I snort into my jumper to mask the sound from the woman.

“We’re doing autographs!” Gilderoy tells the Healer with another glittering smile. “They want loads of them, won’t take no for an answer! I just hope we’ve got enough photographs!”

“Listen to him,” says the Healer, taking Lockhart’s arm and beaming fondly at him as though he is a precocious two-year-old. “He was rather well known a few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be coming back a little bit. Will you step this way? He’s in a closed ward, you know, he must have slipped out while I was bringing in the Christmas presents, the door’s usually kept locked . . . not that he’s dangerous! But,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “bit of a danger to himself, bless him. . . . Doesn’t know who he is, you see, wanders off and can’t remember how to get back. . . . It is nice of you to have come to see him —”

“Er,” says Ron, gesturing uselessly at the floor above, “actually, we were just — er —”

But the Healer is smiling expectantly at us, and Ron’s feeble mutter of “going to have a cup of tea” trails away into nothingness. We look at one another rather hopelessly and then follow Lockhart and his Healer along the corridor.

“Let’s not stay long,” Ron says quietly. I nod my head in agreement. I feel for the man, but not too much.

The Healer points her wand at the door of the Janus Thickey ward and mutters “Alohomora.” The door swings open and she leads the way inside, keeping a firm grasp on Gilderoy’s arm until she has settled him into an armchair beside his bed.

“This is our long-term resident ward,” she informs us in a low voice. “For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement. . . . Gilderoy does seem to be getting back some sense of himself, and we’ve seen a real improvement in Mr. Bode, he seems to be regaining the power of speech very well, though he isn’t speaking any language we recognize yet. . . . Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas presents, I’ll leave you all to chat . . .”

I look around; this ward bears unmistakable signs of being a permanent home to its residents. They have many more personal effects around their beds than in Arthur’s ward; the wall around Gilderoy’s headboard, for instance, is papered with pictures of himself, all beaming toothily and waving at the new arrivals. He has autographed many of them to himself in disjointed, childish writing. The moment he was deposited in his chair by the Healer, Gilderoy pulls a fresh stack of photographs towards him, seizes a quill, and starts signing them all feverishly.

Well I’m glad to see that he hasn’t changed at all. I roll my eyes, and Ariana nudges me in the ribs with a reproving look. Great St. Ariana is out to play now.

“You can put them in envelopes,” he says to Ginny, throwing the signed pictures into her lap one by one as he finishes them. “I am not forgotten, you know, no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail. . . . Gladys Gudgeon writes weekly. . . . I just wish I knew why . . .” He pauses, looking faintly puzzled, then beams again and returns to his signing with renewed vigor. “I suspect it is simply my good looks . . .”

I don’t react this time and give the blond girl a pointed look in which she just rolls her eyes at me.

A sallow-skinned, mournful-looking wizard lays in the bed opposite, staring at the ceiling; he is mumbling to himself and seems quite unaware of anything around him.   Two beds along is a woman whose entire head is covered in fur; I remember something similar happening to Hermione during our second year, although fortunately the damage, in her case, was not permanent. At the far end of the ward flowery curtains have been drawn around two beds to give the occupants and their visitors some privacy.

“Here you are, Agnes,” says the Healer brightly to the furry-faced woman, handing her a small pile of Christmas presents. “See, not forgotten, are you? And your son’s sent an owl to say he’s visiting tonight, so that’s nice, isn’t it?”

Agnes gives several loud barks. Oh the poor thing.

“And look, Broderick, you’ve been sent a potted plant and a lovely calendar with a different fancy hippogriff for each month, they’ll brighten things up, won’t they?” says the Healer, bustling along to the mumbling man, setting a rather ugly plant with long, swaying tentacles on the bedside cabinet and fixing the calendar to the wall with her wand. “And — oh, Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?”

My head spins round. The curtains have been drawn back from the two beds at the end of the ward and two visitors are walking back down the aisle between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur, and a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakably a stuffed vulture and, trailing behind her looking thoroughly depressed — Neville.

With a sudden rush of understanding, I realize who the people in the end beds must be. Ron has looked up at the sound of the name “Longbottom” too, and before Harry can stop him has called, “Neville!”

Neville jumps and cowers as though a bullet has narrowly missed him.

“It’s us, Neville!” says Ron brightly, getting to his feet. “Have you seen? Lockhart’s here! Who’ve you been visiting?”

“Friends of yours, Neville, dear?” says Neville’s grandmother graciously, bearing down upon us all.

Neville looks as though he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. A dull purple flush is creeping up his plump face and he is not making eye contact with any of us.

“Ah, yes,” says his grandmother, peering at Harry and sticking out a shriveled, clawlike hand for him to shake. “Yes, yes, I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of you.” She turns to the rest of us and stops on Ariana and me first.

“Ah Miss Dumbledore, and Miss Pendragon, food to see you again.” She says. We both nod out heads having met her at some wizarding function once upon a time.

“And you two are clearly Weasleys,” Mrs. Longbottom continues, proffering her hand regally to Ron and Ginny in turn. “Yes, I know your parents — not well, of course — but fine people, fine people . . . and you must be Hermione Granger?”

Hermione looks rather startled that Mrs. Longbottom knew her name, but shook hands all the same.

“Yes, Neville’s told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven’t you? He’s a good boy,” she said, casting a sternly appraising look down her rather bony nose at Neville, “but he hasn’t got his father’s talent, I’m afraid to say . . .” And she jerks her head in the direction of the two beds at the end of the ward, so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembles alarmingly.

“What?” says Ron, looking amazed. I groan softly at his unconscious buffoonery. “Is that your dad down the end, Neville?”

“What’s this?” says Mrs. Longbottom sharply. “Haven’t you told your friends about your parents, Neville?”

Neville takes a deep breath, looks up at the ceiling, and shakes his head. I can not remember ever feeling sorrier for anyone, but I can’t think of any way of helping Neville out of the situation.

“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of!” says Mrs. Longbottom angrily. “You should be proud, Neville, proud! They didn’t give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!”

“I’m not ashamed,” says Neville very faintly, still looking anywhere but at the rest of us. Ron is now standing on tiptoe to look over at the inhabitants of the two beds.

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it!” says Mrs. Longbottom. “My son and his wife,” she said, turning haughtily to Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Ariana, and me, “were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who’s followers.”

Hermione and Ginny both clap their hands over their mouths. Ron stops craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Neville’s parents and looks mortified. I stare angrily down at the ground, this subject hitting far too close to home. Ariana grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly.

“They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected within the Wizarding community,” Mrs. Longbottom goes on. “Highly gifted, the pair of them. I — yes, Alice dear, what is it?”

Neville’s mother has come edging down the ward in her nightdress. She no longer has the plump, happy-looking face I have seen in old photographs of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her face is thin and worn now, her eyes seem overlarge, and her hair, which has turned white, is wispy and dead-looking. She does not seem to want to speak, or perhaps she is not able to, but she makes timid motions towards Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand.

“Again?” says Mrs. Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. “Very well, Alice dear, very well — Neville, take it, whatever it is . . .”

But Neville has already stretched out his hand, into which his mother drops an empty Drooble’s Blowing Gum wrapper.

“Very nice, dear,” says Neville’s grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder. But Neville says quietly, “Thanks Mum.”

His mother totters away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looks around at the rest of us, his expression defiant, as though daring us to laugh, but I do not think I’ve ever found anything less funny in my life.

“Well, we’d better get back,” sighs Mrs. Longbottom, drawing on long green gloves. “Very nice to have met you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now . . .”

But as they leave, I am sure I see Neville slip the wrapper into his pocket.

The door closes behind them. Before I can talk myself out of it I detatch myself from Ariana and race after them. “Wait Neville!” I cry, shocking both him and his grandmother.

Neville still has that defiant look on his face, but I ignore it, and launch myself into his arms, wrapping them around his neck in a tight hug.

“Your parents were brave. They were heroes Neville, and I would never wish what happened to your parents on even my worst enemy. So you should be very proud of them and talk about them as well, for they are some of my heroes.” I whisper. When I pull away Neville’s eyes are wide and his hands are trembling.

“You don’t mean that— your Mum and Dad…” Neville starts shakily.

“Were on the run from a madman. They hid in order to try and protect us, they weren’t given the chance to live or encounter torture. Your parents took it and survived for you— for all of us. That is what I would call a hero.” I say earnestly. Neville’s grandmother gives me an appraising look.

“Nicely said young Pendragon. I can see your parents in you.” With that the pair of them turn away again, and I sigh slumping down against a wall in the hallway. This day has been far too emotionally draining.

“Nice speech you gave there Pendragon.” Ariana says softly slumping down next to me to stare at the same blank spot on the wall.

“It wasn’t a speech… and it wasn’t the whole truth.” I say softly. Ariana turns her gaze to look at me.

“Oh, and what is?” She asks.

“That I feel incredibly guilty for my uncle’s girlfriend Bellatrix Black tortured his parents into the state that they are in now.” I say hollowly. Ariana sighs, and grips tightly to my hand.

“There’s nothing that you can do about that Jamie. You are not responsible for the actions of your family members from when you were merely a babe.” Ariana says forcefully. I turn my head to meet her gaze.

“If you say so…”


	21. Occlumency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 21- Occlumency

 

   Kreacher, it transpires, was lurking in the attic. Sirius said he found him up there, covered in dust, no doubt looking for more relics of the Black family to hide in his cupboard. Though Sirius seems satisfied with this story, it makes Harry uneasy, which makes me uneasy. Kreacher seems to be in a better mood on his reappearance, his bitter muttering has subsided somewhat, and he submits to orders more docilely than usual.

Harry does not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius, which I understand, his cheerfulness is evaporating fast now that Christmas is over. As the date of our departure back to Hogwarts draws nearer, he becomes more and more prone to what Molly calls “fits of the sullens,” in which he will become taciturn and grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak’s room for hours at a time. His gloom seeps through the house, oozing under doorways like some noxious gas, so that all of us become infected by it.

I’m half expecting for Sirius to plead with Harry not to go back to Hogwarts and to just stay with him. I have been enjoying my time with my newly formed family though. Things have settled quite nicely now with the official paperwork all signed, notarized, and legally binding now.   
I am no longer the orphan alone in the world with only her twin brother to keep her company. Now I have a mother, a father, seven brothers, and a sister. My head whirls for a moment at the sheer number of family members that I now have. I may not be ready to quite admit all of this out loud for fear of it all being torn away from me, but they truly do feel like my family.

I can admit that sparingly to the kids but never to Arthur and Molly… that’d be like I’m trying to replace my parents and I’m not… am I?

Unfortunately the day dawns and we are on our final day of freedom before having to go back to school and homework, classes, and that vile evil toad. Luckily Molly has yet to find out about the scar etched into the back of my hand. I’m pretty sure that the sheet devastation she’d cause would level a small country.

We’re hanging out in the boys’ bedroom not really wanting or liking the idea of facing the real world so Harry and Ron play a game of Wizard’s Chess. Hermione and Ginny are playing with Crookshanks while Luka, Ariana and I are having a heated debate over what nasty surprises are going to be waiting at school for us when we return.

I feel like I’m becoming a pessimist more and more every day that this situation goes on. There’s a knock on the door and we all look up startled to see a slightly frazzled looking Molly standing in the doorway.

“Harry dear, could you come down to the kitchen? Professor Snape would like a word with you.” She says. Okay so maybe this could get worse, well for Harry at least I suppose.

Harry does not immediately register what she said; one of his castles is engaged in a violent tussle with a pawn of Ron’s, and he is egging it on enthusiastically.

“Squash him — squash him, he’s only a pawn, you idiot — sorry, Mrs. Weasley, what did you say?”

“Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He’d like a word.”

Harry’s mouth falls open in horror. He looks around at Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luka, Ariana, and me all of whom are gaping back at him. Crookshanks, whom Hermione was restraining with difficulty for the past quarter of an hour, leaps gleefully upon the board and sets the pieces running for cover, squealing at the top of their voices.

“Snape?” says Harry blankly.

“Professor Snape, dear,” says Molly reprovingly. “Now come on, quickly, he says he can’t stay long.”

“What’s he want with you?” says Ron, looking unnerved as Molly withdraws from the room.

“You haven’t done anything, have you?”

“No!” says Harry indignantly.

“Then hopefully it’s nothing to worry about.” I say trying to sound confident but failing miserably while doing so. We watch in dreadful silence as Harry leaves the room. It’s a few minutes before Ginny decides to speak up.

“Are we going to go and see what we can hear?” She asks tentatively. I shake my head no.

“We don’t need to. Harry will tell us everything that happened later. Beside there are more important things to be focused on for the moment. Isn’t Arthur coming back soon?” I ask hoping that it’s true.

“Yeah! He should be out of St. Mungo’s today! I hope they let him out so that we can see him before we head back to school!” Ginny says with a smile. The five of us sit there in silence for a few moments wondering what exactly is going down in the kitchen.

“So… what’s going on with everyone?” Hermione asks suddenly with a mischievous smile on her face. I inhale wrong and immediately burst out into a couching fit. Ginny giggles conspiratorially and a blush is slowly working its way up onto Ariana’s cheeks. Luka and Ron share twin looks of confusion that would have been funny if I wasn’t currently dying, and mortified.

“Fine… we’re fine. What about you two? How are you doing Ron?” Ariana says quickly focusing her attention on the oblivious redheaded boy across from her. Thankfully Ron takes the bait, and the conversation is directed away from dangerous territory. I glare over at Hermione and Ginny who are giggling quietly looking entirely too pleased with themselves. I shift over to them, and proceed to smack the both of them in the back of the head.

Ginny sticks her lower lip out at me in a pout, while Hermione actually has the grace to look chastised. We goof around for a few more minutes before there is a loud shrill shriek that signals the arrival of a visitor. Since this is a far safer thing to investigate rather than Harry and Snape alone together, we hurry down the steps as fast as we can.

Molly is forcing the curtains closed on Mrs. Black portrait after having stunned her to silence. The best thing though is seeing Arthur looking a little tired still, but standing on his own volition with Bill beside him. “Dad!” Ginny cries racing forward, and throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. He winces at the strength but returns it. Fred and George all of the sudden apparate next to him and hug him as well.

I have a big smile on my face as Ron hurries over to join the group. I glance at my brother to see him looking wistfully as well. Suddenly there’s a hand on both of our shoulders. I startle but its only Molly, she has a happy smile on her face. “Its your family as well loves. Why don’t you go say hello.” She nudges slightly. It doesn’t take much after that for the two of us to go over to Arthur and give him gentle hugs, which he returns happily.

“Its great to see you all again!” He claims cheerfully. Hermione and Ariana both get hugs as well when the mob that is now my family moves down the hall. I turn to Bill because everyone has forgotten him.

“Its good to see you too Bill!” I say happily. The man laughs and shakes his head.

“I’m happy to see you to little sister.” He replies. I blush at the title, but the smile doesn’t melt off my face. It’s definitely going to take some time to get used to that. Molly is clucking over the lot of us saying that she’s going to get some food going.

We all file down the stairs to the kitchen a rowdy lot Arthur explaining that he’s cured, but we freeze when we get into the kitchen. What on earth exactly went on here?

Gazing at the scene in front of me, which is also suspended in mid-action, both Sirius and Snape looking towards the door with their wands pointing into each other’s faces and Harry immobile between them, a hand stretched out to each of them, trying to force them apart.

“Merlin’s beard,” says Arthur, the smile sliding off his face, “what’s going on here?”

Both Sirius and Snape lower their wands. I look from one to the other. Each wear an expression of utmost contempt, yet the unexpected entrance of so many witnesses seems to have brought them to their senses. Snape pockets his wand and sweeps back across the kitchen, passing the Weasleys without comment. At the door he looks back.

“Six o’clock Monday evening, Potter.” He is gone. Sirius glares after him, his wand at his side.

“But what’s been going on?” asks Arthur again.

“Nothing, Arthur,” says Sirius, who is breathing heavily as though he has just run a long distance. “Just a friendly little chat between two old school friends . . .” With what looks like an enormous effort, he smiles. “So . . . you’re cured? That’s great news, really great . . .”

“Yes, isn’t it?” says Molly, leading her husband forward into a chair. “Healer Smethwyck worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to whatever that snake’s got in its fangs, and Arthur’s learned his lesson about dabbling in Muggle medicine, haven’t you, dear?” she adds, rather menacingly.

“Yes, Molly dear,” says Arthur meekly. I snicker under my breath at how under her thumb he is until she casts a glare my way, and I slink behind George some for protection. I do not want to mess with her.

This night’s meal should have been a cheerful one with Arthur back amongst us; I can tell Sirius is trying to make it so, yet when he is not forcing himself to laugh loudly at Fred and George’s jokes or offering everyone more food, his face falls back into a moody, brooding expression.

Harry looks like he wants to talk to him but he’s separated by a few Order members so he cannot. So he settles for telling Ron, Hermione, and me about what exactly Snape wanted. Turns out that Harry’s going to be taking Occlumency lessons.

“Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams about Voldemort,” says Hermione at once. “Well, you won’t be sorry not to have them anymore, will you?”

“Extra lessons with Snape?” says Ron, sounding aghast. “I’d rather have the nightmares!”

“There’s a lot of things I’d rather than that. I’d probably blow the place up with whatever this is.” I say waving my hand and having a light glow of blue surround it.

“That’s new.” Hermione says with wide eyes. I look at it in shock and then shrug my shoulders helplessly.

“I’ve got not a clue about what it is.” I say exasperatedly. Harry reaches out his hand and touches my glowing one with his. He doesn’t cry out in pain, so I take that as a good sign. A shiver does seem to run through him though.

“So?” Ron asks curiously. Hermione’s eyes are narrowed at me, and I shift slightly under the scrutiny.

“Well it doesn’t hurt that’s for sure it’s more like… a rush. Touching Jamie’s hand made mine tingle and now I’m itching to use some magic.” Harry explains carefully. I widen my eyes at that. I guess that my magic is strong enough that it can rub off other people now. I concentrate really hard, and the blue glow slowly fades back leaving me with a normal hand. Harry reaches over again for my hand and after a moment releases me again.

“Nothing. That really cool though.” He says. I bite down on my lip, trying to figure out what exactly is happening to me. I look up and see that the only one other than my friends that had seen my little demonstration is Ariana. She’s looking at me with a curious expression that is slightly worried. I give her a soft smile to let her know that I’m okay and that seems to appease her.

We are to return to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus the following day, escorted once again by Tonks and Lupin, both of whom are eating breakfast in the kitchen when Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I arrive there next morning. The adults seem to have been midway through a whispered conversation when the door opens; all of them look around hastily and fall silent.

After a hurried breakfast we pull on jackets and scarves against the chilly gray January morning. Harry does not want to say good-bye to Sirius. The pair of them had a private conversation together and I smiled at that. It was good that Harry had someone who cared about him at least. Sure he has Molly and Arthur but it’s different when they’re not actually yours. I knew that feeling.

We were surrounded and smothered by hugs and well wishes from Molly and Arthur, and not without a few threats about behaving well and keeping out of trouble. Then we’re being shuffled out of the house next to Tonks who is disguised as a tall tweedy woman with gray hair.

The door of number twelve slams shut behind us leaving the nine of us kids standing there with a shiver. We follow Lupin down the front steps. As he reaches the pavement, I look around. Number twelve is shrinking rapidly as those on either side of it stretch sideways, squeezing it out of sight; one blink later, it is gone.

“Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better,” says Tonks, and I think there is nervousness in the glance she throws around the square. Lupin flings out his right arm.

BANG.

A violently purple, triple-decker bus has appeared out of thin air in front of us, narrowly avoiding the nearest lamppost, which jumps backwards out of its way. I groan at the sight of it. This thing is seriously messed up to ride on.

A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform leaps down onto the pavement and says, “Welcome to the —”

“Yes, yes, we know, thank you,” says Tonks swiftly. “On, on, get on —”

And she shoves Harry forward towards the steps, past the conductor, who goggles at Harry as he passes.

“’Ere — it’s ’Arry — !”

“If you shout his name I will curse you into oblivion,” mutters Tonks menacingly, now shunting Ginny and Hermione forward before grabbing at Luka, Ariana, and me.

“I’ve always wanted to go on this thing,” says Ron happily, joining Harry on board and looking around. I sit down next to Ginny with Ariana and Luka behind me.

“I loathe this thing.” Luka grumbles, already beginning to look motion sick. He only ever gets sick on this bus though.

“If you throw up on me I will stop this bus just to murder you.” I glare at him sharply and Ginny casts a worried look at us.

Stan comes up to us holding out his hand for the bus fare. I fish out eleven sickles out of my pocket handing him the money as the bus lurches to a start again.

It rumbles around Grimmauld Square, weaving on and off the pavement, then, with another tremendous BANG, we are all flung backward; Ron’s chair topples right over and Pigwidgeon, who was on his lap, bursts out of his cage and flies twittering wildly up to the front of the bus where he flutters down upon Hermione’s shoulder instead. I narrowly avoid falling by seizing a candle bracket, and look out of the window: we are now speeding down what appears to be a motorway.

I check on my own owl and see Dionysus is hooting softly at a very fat Hedwig who looks like she’s trying to sleep on this god-awful ride.

“I think I’m gonna puke.” Luka murmurs from behind me. I reel around to glare at the boy.

“Aim for the aisle.” I say with a pointed glare, making a face when he does just that and loses his breakfast on the ground. Ariana’s face pales, though she manages to pat him on the back to make him feel better.

“Just outside Birmingham,” says Stan happily, talking to Harry as Ron struggles up from the floor. “You keepin’ well, then, ’Arry? I seen your name in the paper loads over the summer, but it weren’t never nuffink very nice. . . . I said to Ern, I said, ‘’e didn’t seem like a nutter when we met ’im, just goes to show, dunnit?’”

The Knight Bus sways alarmingly, overtaking a line of cars on the inside. Looking towards the front of the bus I see Hermione cover her eyes with her hands, Pigwidgeon still swaying happily on her shoulder.

BANG.

Chairs slide backward again as the Knight Bus jumps from the Birmingham motorway to a quiet country lane full of hairpin bends. Hedgerows on either side of the road are leaping out of our way as we mount the verges. From here we move to a main street in the middle of a busy town, then to a viaduct surrounded by tall hills, then to a windswept road between high-rise flats, each time with a loud BANG.

“I’ve changed my mind,” mutters Ron, picking himself up from the floor for the sixth time, “I never want to ride on here again.”

“I agree, lets just fly anywhere we need to go from now on.” I say gripping onto Ginny’s hand tightly. At this rate I’m not sure which of us is grabbing onto the other more.

“Listen, it’s ’Ogwarts stop after this,” says Stan brightly, swaying towards us. “That bossy woman up front ’oo got on with you, she’s given us a little tip to move you up the queue. We’re just gonna let Madam Marsh off first, though —” There is more retching from somewhere in the back, followed by a horrible spattering sound. “She’s not feeling ’er best.”

A few minutes later the Knight Bus screeches to a halt outside a small pub, which squeezes itself out of the way to avoid a collision. We can hear Stan ushering the unfortunate Madam Marsh out of the bus and the relieved murmurings of her fellow passengers on the second deck. The bus moves on again, gathering speed, until —

BANG.

“I can’t wait for solid ground.” Ginny moans, and I hear Ariana grunt in agreement behind me.

We are rolling through a snowy Hogsmeade now. I catch a glimpse of the Hog’s Head down its side street, the severed boar’s head sign creaking in the wintry wind. Flecks of snow hit the large window at the front of the bus. At last we roll to a halt outside the gates to Hogwarts.

Lupin and Tonks help us off the bus with our luggage and then get off to say good-bye. I glance up at the three decks of the Knight Bus and see all the passengers staring down at us, noses flat against the windows.

“You’ll be safe once you’re in the grounds,” says Tonks, casting a careful eye around at the deserted road. “Have a good term, okay?”

“I think we’ll be better now we’re on land!” I cry dramatically pounding my feet against the snowy ground. Mostly I’m just trying to keep warm since its much colder here than in London. I almost miss the creepy house.

There are frozen chuckles at that. “Look after yourselves,” says Lupin, shaking hands all round and reaching Harry last I overhear for I’m next to him. “And listen . . .” He lowers his voice while the rest of them exchanged last-minute good-byes with Tonks, “Harry, I know you don’t like Snape, but he is a superb Occlumens and we all — Sirius included — want you to learn to protect yourself, so work hard, all right?”

“Yeah, all right,” says Harry heavily, looking up into Lupin’s prematurely lined face. “See you, then . . .”

The nine of us struggled up the slippery drive towards the castle dragging our trunks. Hermione is already talking about knitting a few elf hats before bedtime. I glance back when we reach the oak front doors; the Knight Bus has already gone, and I half-wish, given what was coming the following day (school), that I am still on board.

* * *

The next day is about as much fun as I expect it to be. The teachers start right back up on the homework if not on a greater scale as if they’ve suddenly realized that we’re behind schedule with our studies. Harry is upset about his upcoming lesson with Snape tonight, so he’s in a bad mood, especially when Snape gives him a hard time in Potions.

Harry seems to be growing unhappier since more and more D.A. members have been coming up to him in the halls asking if there’s going to be a meeting today.

“I’ll let you know when the next one is,” Harry says over and over again, “but I can’t do it tonight, I’ve got to go to — er — Remedial Potions . . .”

“You take Remedial Potions?” asks Zacharias Smith superciliously, having cornered Harry in the entrance hall after lunch. “Good Lord, you must be terrible, Snape doesn’t usually give extra lessons, does he?”

As Smith strides away in an annoyingly buoyant fashion, Ron glares after him.

“Shall I jinx him? I can still get him from here,” he says, raising his wand and taking aim between Smith’s shoulder blades.

“You should have just told him that you actually made a potion explode so badly that you ruined Snape’s favorite robe in the process. It would have been a much more entertaining story.” I say with a grin. Harry rolls his eyes at that.

“That wouldn’t explain the recurring time spent with him though Jamie. And just forget it Ron,” says Harry dismally. “It’s what everyone’s going to think, isn’t it? That I’m really stup —”

“Hi, Harry,” says a voice behind him. He turns around and finds Cho standing there.

“Oh,” says Harry awkwardly. “Hi.”

“We’ll be in the library, Harry,” says Hermione firmly, and she seizes Ron above the elbow and dragged him off towards the marble staircase her other arm around me.

“Ah Mione! I wanted to watch!” I whine as they pair vanish from sight.

“We’re not going to intrude on them. How would you feel if winter break happened again Jamie?” She demands pointedly. I pale at the thought, and grumble about the unfairness of the world under my breath.

“Wait… what happened over break?” Ron asks confusedly finally coming back into the conversation.

“Nothing, Hermione is just trying to make a point.” I say quickly. Ron looks suspicious but he settles on confused in the end.

The three of us spend a few hours in the library working at chipping away at our ever-growing pile of homework. After a while Hermione looks up from her homework with a serious look on her face. “What’s that look for Hermione?” I ask warily not quite sure where she’s going with that look.

“You know what I realized?” She asks.

“No Mione for all my many and vast talents I come up short when it comes to mind reading.” I deadpan. She rolls her eyes at me, and Ron watches the conversation closely.

“I’m serious Jamie. Valentines Day is coming up soon.” She says giving me a significant look. I sit there for a moment before panic starts to flood my body. Why did she have to bring that up? I only just admitted that I liked the girl a few days ago. I don’t even know if I could handle doing anything big with her yet.

“So…” Ron says starting to get annoyed by our half spoken conversations.

“Its nothing Ron.” I tell him, glaring at Hermione.

“Its not! You better do something Jamie Pendragon, or I will not help you with any of your assignments for a month.” She threatens, and with that she slams her book closed, before storming off to the stacks for another book. Ron and I sit there for a few minutes before Ron heaves a heavy sigh.

“Girls, I swear I don’t understand you.” He says dejectedly.

“That’s okay I don’t understand what the hell goes on with you boys either.” I say and we both stick our tongues out at each other, before turning back to the assignment we’re trying to finish. Hermione comes back after a few minutes grumbling to herself about how stupid it is that we’re still not learning anything with Umbridge.

After another half hour Harry shows up at the library while we’re working on the large pointless amount of homework that Umbridge assigned us. Other students, nearly all of them fifth years, sit at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky outside the mullioned windows grow steadily blacker. The only other sound is the slight squeaking of one of Madam Pince’s shoes as the librarian prowls the aisles menacingly, breathing down the necks of those touching her precious books.

Harry sits down next to me across from Ron and Hermione. I bite my lip in worry at his apperance. He’s very pale, and shaking slightly.

“Harry?” I say softly.

“How did it go?” Hermione whispers, and then, looking concerned, “Are you all right, Harry?”

“Yeah . . . fine . . . I dunno,” says Harry impatiently, wincing. “Listen . . . I’ve just realized something . . .”

He tells us what he has just seen and deduced from his Occlumency practice.

“So . . . so, are you saying . . .” whispers Ron, as Madam Pince sweeps past, squeaking slightly, “that the weapon — the thing You-Know-Who’s after — is in the Ministry of Magic?”

“Makes sense that they’d have something of catastrophic power and not know what it is.” I mumble crossly still upset with the Ministry.

“In the Department of Mysteries, it’s got to be,” Harry whispers. “I saw that door when your dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it’s definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him.”

Hermione lets out a long, slow sigh. “Of course,” she breathes.

“Of course what?” says Ron rather impatiently.

“Ron, think about it. . . . Sturgis Podmore was trying to get through a door at the Ministry of Magic. . . . It must have been that one, it’s too much of a coincidence!”

“How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he’s on our side?” says Ron.

“Well, I don’t know,” Hermione admits. “That is a bit odd . . .”

“Maybe he was trying to protect whatever it is— or…” I trail off. The three of them look at me.

“Or what?” Harry questions. I let out a shaky breath of air.

“If there was one thing that fake Mad-Eye taught us last year it was how to withstand an Imperius curse. He could have been being controlled by Voldermort.” I breathe quietly. That makes the three of them stiffen at the implication that the Order is almost partially compromised.

“I just don’t know though.” I admit softly, rubbing down the goosebumps on my arms.

“So what’s in the Department of Mysteries?” Harry asks Ron. “Has your dad ever mentioned anything about it?”

“I know they call the people who work in there ‘Unspeakables,’” says Ron, frowning. “Because no one really seems to know what they do in there. . . . Weird place to have a weapon . . .”

“It’s not weird at all, it makes perfect sense,” says Hermione. “It will be something top secret that the Ministry has been developing, I expect. . . . Harry, are you sure you’re all right?”

For Harry has just run both his hands hard over his forehead as though trying to iron it.

“Yeah . . . fine . . .” he says, lowering his hands, which are trembling. “I just feel a bit . . . I don’t like Occlumency much . . .”

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t like people trying to reach around in my head.” I tell him patting him on the shoulder comfortingly.

“I expect anyone would feel shaky if they’d had their mind attacked over and over again,” says Hermione sympathetically echoing my sentiments. “Look, let’s get back to the common room, we’ll be a bit more comfortable there . . .”

But the common room is packed and full of shrieks of laughter and excitement; Fred and George are demonstrating their latest bit of joke shop merchandise.

“Headless Hats!” shouts George, as Fred waves a pointed hat decorated with a fluffy pink feather at the watching students. “Two Galleons each — watch Fred, now!”

Fred sweeps the hat onto his head, beaming. For a second he merely looks rather stupid, then both hat and head vanish. I need one of those.

Several girls scream, but everyone else is roaring with laughter.

“And off again!” shouts George, and Fred’s hand grope for a moment in what seems to be thin air over his shoulder; then his head reappears as he sweeps the pink-feathered hat from it again.

“I’ll take one!” I say with a grin. Fred grins at me and tosses me the hat as I search for my money.

“No, no, little sis, consider it a welcome to the family gift.” George says seriously shaking his head at me. I grin at them and plop the hat down on my head, have people laugh and shriek again.

“How do those hats work, then?” says Hermione, distracted from her homework and watching Fred and George. “I mean, obviously it’s some kind of Invisibility Spell, but it’s rather clever to have extended the field of invisibility beyond the boundaries of the charmed object. . . . I’d imagine the charm wouldn’t have a very long life though . . .”

“I’m going to have to do this tomorrow,” Harry mutters, pushing the books he has just taken out of his bag back inside it.

“Well, write it in your homework planner then!” says Hermione encouragingly. “So you don’t forget!”

Harry and Ron exchange looks as he reaches into his bag, withdraws the planner and opens it tentatively. I grimace at the sight of it. I haven’t gotten as bad as to have a talking planner yet.

“Don’t leave it till later, you big second-rater!” chides the book as Harry scribbles down Umbridge’s homework. Hermione beams at it.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” says Harry, stuffing the homework planner back into his bag. With that he disappears up the steps to the boys’ dormitory leaving us looking after him worriedly.

“He’s going to be okay right?” I ask worriedly, not liking the state that my friend has been in since returning from his lesson with Snape.

“Sure he is! He’s Harry Potter ain’t he!” Ron exclaims with a false bravado that falls flat.

“For all our sakes let’s hope so.” Hermione says cryptically, and the three of us return to finishing our assignment.

Something big is brewing on the horizon. I can feel it.


	22. The Beetle at Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 22- The Beetle at Bay

 

Sometimes I seriously hate it when I’m right. There’s really nothing more to say than that. When Hermione’s Daily Prophet arrives she smooths it out, gazes for a moment at the front page, and then gives a yelp that causes everyone in the vicinity to stare at her.

“What?” say Harry, Ron, and I together.

For an answer she spreads the newspaper on the table in front of us and points at ten black-and-white photographs that fill the whole of the front page, nine showing wizards’ faces and the tenth, a witch’s. Some of the people in the photographs are silently jeering; others are tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture is captioned with a name and the crime for which the person was sent to Azkaban.

My blood runs cold recognizing two of the pictures instantly.

Antonin Dolohov, reads the legend beneath a wizard with a long, pale, twisted face who is sneering up at me, convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Those are Molly’s brothers…

Augustus Rookwood, says the caption beneath a pockmarked man with greasy hair who is leaning against the edge of his picture, looking bored, convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic Secrets to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

My eyes are drawn to the picture of the witch. She has long, dark hair that looks unkempt and straggly in the picture, though I have seen it sleek, thick, and shining. She glared up at me through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant, disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth. Like Sirius, she retains vestiges of great good looks, but something — perhaps Azkaban — has taken most of her beauty.

Bellatrix Black, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom.

The photo next to hers is one that haunts my nightmares. Augustus stares at me from his photo in the paper. His long stringy blond hair is unkempt, and there is a small arrogant smirk on his face as if he knows exactly how much unrest that he causes me.

Augustus Pendragon, convicted of the murder of the majority of the Pendragon name including his father, brother Daniel, sister-in-law Alexis, attempted murder of Luka and Jamie Pendragon.

My jaw tightens at the description of his crime so heinously laid out there. I focus my attention on the caption of the article.

 

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT" FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

 

“Black?” says Harry loudly as my blood goes cold. “Not — ?”

“Shhh!” whispers Hermione desperately. “Not so loud — just read it!”

 

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening, and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals.

“We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were two and a half years ago when the murderer Sirius Black escaped,” said Fudge last night. “Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely that these individuals, who include Black’s cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals and beg the magical community to remain alert and cautious. On no account should any of these individuals be approached.”

 

I’m not breathing at this point. Augustus is out. He’s wandering the earth free at the same time that I am. He’s insane, vengeful, and murderous with a grudge to pick against my family. My hands are violently shaking, and I push back in my seat suddenly toppling off the bench, and onto the ground.

“Jamie!” Hermione cries worriedly. Unfortunately my freak out is drawing more than a little attention. Almost everyone in the wizarding world knows of Augustus’ sick need to kill off all the “impure” Pendragons his own family.

I scramble up from the ground, my heart thudding painfully fast in my chest. It feels like the walls of the Great Hall are beginning to close in on me. I can vaguely see my brother getting out of his seat at his table pale faced. I stumble backwards in the direction of the exit. As soon as my feet get hold of level ground, I’m off and running.

I don’t even bother that I’m not wearing a heavier cloak to go outside as I push open the doors to the courtyard. The icy air hits me, and a shiver runs down my body instantly cooling off my overheated body. I can hear people call my name and my brothers, but I don’t stop until I’m at the furthest edge of the courtyard looking out over the snowy grounds.

My breath puffs out in icy visible breaths, and I hear someone crunching through to snow behind me, and Luka comes to a stop at my side. He stares out over the grounds with me. I can hear more people approaching but I ignore it. “He’s out there.” Luka says tightly. I can hear the suppressed anger in his voice. I nod my head jerkily trying not to speak out of fear of what I may say.

“If I see him— I’ll kill him.” Luka swears resolutely.

“I think that Mum would have a problem with that.” Fred says leaning against the guardrail keeping his eyes on us.

“I didn’t ask you for your opinion, and I don’t care what she thinks!” Luka snarls. A snort comes from behind us, as George joins Fred.

“Sure you don’t, and you don’t have to ask for our opinion for we’re family now, and we’ll give it whether you like it or not.” He says with a soft grin.

“Well I didn’t ask to be a part of your family.” Luka says his rage still keeping him on track, while I’m frozen in my mind.

“You had Mum and Dad sign the papers, that’s good enough.” A softer voice says, and Ginny appears at my side, pressing herself close to me.

“Face is Lou you’re stuck with us whether you want it or not. Besides you didn’t even ask us if we were going to stop you from killing the prat. I for one will help you hunt him down myself.” Ron says placing his hand on Luka’s shoulder, shocking my brother out of his thoughts.

“Y-you’d do that?” Luka stutters, “You didn’t even know them… they aren’t your parents…”

“Of course we would you blind flobberworm. You’re our siblings now, so that means that the people who want to hurt you are our enemies as well. People like Augustus think that they can get away with anything, and that’s not right.” George says firmly. Ginny wraps her arm through mine, and squeezes herself closer to me. I can feel hot tears racing down my cold face.

“I see him everywhere, and now he’s out there.” I whisper, my voice cracking with held in emotion. I can hear sharp gasps from the rest of them buts it’s another voice that replies to my haunted admission.

“So you use that fear, and turn it into something that you can use against him. Don’t let your fear of him get the better of you, for no matter how much of a monster he is, he is still just a man. He is still just as flawed and mortal as the rest of us, and that means that he can fall like the rest of us as well.” I glance over Ginny to see Ariana standing there, her yellow and black scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and lower part of her face.

Everyone’s attention is on the girl now. “He killed our parents and grandfather— he’s on Voldemort’s side.” I cry. I ignore the winces that come from some of my newly acquired siblings.

“Yes, he has. But you’re not alone now. You have a quite frankly huge family that is by your side, and an Order that’s out there to protect people like you, not only Harry Potter. You also have Hermione and I and though that might not seem like much, we are wholeheartedly dedicated to you guys. That’s more than someone like Augustus will ever have.” She states. We’re all silent for a few moments after her heartfelt speech.

“Well you’re welcome to be our emotional support group anytime you want Dumbledore.” Fred says with a grin on his face. Ariana blushes prettily and casts her eyes to the ground self-consciously. I sniff back some tears and try to force through the bad feelings that plague me.

“Y-you’re right Ari—don’t know why I would ever think you aren’t.” I say with a watery small grin. She laughs, and wipes away at her own watery eyes. Ginny buries herself closer into my side.

“I’m so sorry Jamie.” She sniffles. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath trying to steel myself.

“There’s nothing that we can do about it Gin. It’s happened, now we just have to hope that they’ll get them back in Azkeban soon.” I say evenly.

“Or the ground.” Luka grumbles. I slick my gaze to him, and see that the anger is still there simmering just under his skin.

“Luka…” I say but trail off. There’s honestly nothing that I can tell him to make him feel better at this moment. He starts trudging back off to the castle and I glance at the redheaded crowd around me.

“Thanks… what you said— it means a lot.” I say sincerely, and glance at Ariana, making sure that she understands that I appreciate her words as well.

She gives me a tiny smile in response, and nods her head. “Well… I think its safe to say that you’ll expect mail from Mum and Dad.” George says clapping his frozen hands, and starts back inside after Luka.

“Yeah… wonder if they’ll have any jam left.” Ron mutters hurrying after his brother. He’s never been the best with emotional situations like this. Ginny gives my arm one last squeeze before engaging Ariana in conversation as they leave as well. That just leaves Fred and me alone looking out over the grounds. I stare at the curly spindle of smoke coming out of Hagrid’s hut.

“It looks so peaceful doesn’t it? Funny how the world doesn’t reflect the state of its occupants.” He says softly. I raise my eyebrow at that.

“Since when did you become deep?” I question. A sliver of a grin appears on his face.

“We’re not always carefree Jame. There are some things that you have to guard closely, and my serious side is one of those. People are forgetting how to laugh these days… that’s something that the world is going to need pretty soon Jamie. George and I have to be there to help them out with that.” He explains.

I shake my head in wonder at the boy. “Have I told you that I feel incredibly lucky to have you in my life?”

“Why no you haven’t, but why shouldn’t you feel that way, I am pure awesomeness personified in duplicate.” He crows throwing his arms wide. I narrow my eyes at him for ruining the moment. I jab him in his exposed ribs, and he gives a very unmanly squeak.

“Don’t let it go to your head. I was being serious you know.” I say with a pout. Fred pouts right back at me while rubbing his offended side.

“I know and so was I. Come on we best be getting back before you freeze over totally. That would be awkward to explain to Madam Pomfrey.” Fred says sticking his thumb back in the direction of the school and the rest of the world. I sigh heavily.

I guess there’s no escaping from this. We’re almost halfway back to the entrance when Fred speaks up again.

“You know… you got a real catch there Jamie.”

Let’s just say that I’m lucky that I didn’t face plant in the snow at that comment.

* * *

 

By the time that I got back to the breakfast table Harry, Hermione, and Ron were onto a new topic, that which I’m thankful for. Hermione casts me a concerned look before carrying on with her thought.

“Oh my —” says Hermione wonderingly, looking at the newspaper.

“What now?” says Harry quickly; he looks rather jumpy.

“It’s . . . horrible,” says Hermione, looking shaken. She folds back page ten of the newspaper and hands it back to Harry, Ron, and me.

TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER

 

St. Mungo’s Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderick Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a potted-plant. Healers called to the scene were unable to revive Mr. Bode, who had been injured in a workplace accident some weeks prior to his death.

Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr. Bode’s ward at the time of the incident, has been suspended on full pay and was unavailable for comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the hospital said in a statement, “St. Mungo’s deeply regrets the death of Mr. Bode, whose health was improving steadily prior to this tragic accident.”

“We have strict guidelines on the decorations permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked the dangers of the plant on Mr. Bode’s bedside table. As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr. Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but a cutting of Devil’s Snare, which, when touched by the convalescent Mr. Bode, throttled him instantly.

“St. Mungo’s is as yet unable to account for the presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch or wizard with information to come forward.”

 

“Bode . . .” says Ron. “Bode. It rings a bell . . .”

“We saw him,” Hermione whispers. “In St. Mungo’s, remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart’s, just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the Devil’s Snare arrive. She — the Healer — said it was a Christmas present . . .”

“Well this day certainly just keeps getting better and better.” I mumble holds my head in my hands, trying to keep all my swirling thoughts in some sort of sane order.

“How come we didn’t recognize Devil’s Snare . . . ? We’ve seen it before . . . we could’ve stopped this from happening . . .” Harry murmurs.

“Who expects Devil’s Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a potted plant?” says Ron sharply. “It’s not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat, why didn’t they check what they were buying?”

“Oh come on, Ron!” says Hermione shakily, “I don’t think anyone could put Devil’s Snare in a pot and not realize it tries to kill whoever touches it? This — this was murder. . . . A clever murder, as well. . . . If the plant was sent anonymously, how’s anyone ever going to find out who did it?”

“How do you convict a killer when the weapon of murder is a plant? That surely won’t leave much evidence besides a receipt or sending address.” I muse darkly.

“I met Bode,” Harry says slowly. “I saw him at the Ministry with your dad . . .”

Ron’s mouth falls open. Well that certainly can’t be a coincidence.

“I’ve heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable — he worked in the Department of Mysteries!” Ron cries.

We look at one another for a moment, then Hermione pulls the newspaper back towards her, closes it, glares for a moment at the pictures of the ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leaps to her feet.

“Where are you going?” asks Ron, startled.

“To send a letter,” says Hermione, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. “It . . . well, I don’t know whether . . . but it’s worth trying . . . and I’m the only one who can . . .”

“I hate it when she does that,” grumbles Ron as he, Harry, and I get up from the table and make our own, slower way out of the Great Hall. “Would it kill her to tell us what she’s up to for once? It’d take her about ten more seconds — hey, Hagrid!”

Hagrid is standing beside the doors into the entrance hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to pass. He is still as heavily bruised as he was on the day he came back from his mission to the giants and there is a new cut right across the bridge of his nose.

“All righ’, you three?” he says, trying to muster a smile but managing only a kind of pained grimace. I can sympathize with that.

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” asks Harry, following him as he lumbers after the Ravenclaws.

“Fine, fine,” says Hagrid with a feeble assumption of airiness; he waves a hand and narrowly misses concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who is passing.  “Jus’ busy, yeh know, usual stuff — lessons ter prepare — couple o’ salamanders got scale rot — an’ I’m on probation,” he mumbles.

“You’re on probation?” says Ron very loudly, so that many students passing look around curiously. “Sorry — I mean — you’re on probation?” he whispers.

That is exactly what this day needed on top of everything else.

“Yeah,” says Hagrid. “’S’no more’n I expected, ter tell yeh the truth. Yeh migh’ not’ve picked up on it, bu’ that inspection didn’ go too well, yeh know . . . anyway,” he sighs deeply. “Bes’ go an rub a bit more chili powder on them salamanders or their tails’ll be hangin’ off ’em next. See yeh, Harry . . . Ron, Jamie . . .”

He trudges away, out the front doors and down the stone steps into the damp grounds. I watch him go, wondering how much more bad news I can stand to take.

* * *

The fact that Hagrid is now on probation becomes common knowledge within the school over the next few days, but to our indignation, hardly anybody appears to be upset about it; indeed, some people, Draco Malfoy prominent among them, seem positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St. Mungo’s, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I seem to be the only people who know or care. There is only one topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten escaped Death Eaters, whose story has finally filtered through the school from those few people who read the newspapers. Rumors are flying that some of the convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, that they are supposed to be hiding out in the Shrieking Shack and that they are going to break into Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black had done.

As much as I know that that’s not a possibility it never stops a shiver from running down my spine. I’ve felt horrible since that fateful morning that introduced my own personal boogeyman back into the world. I’ve had to deal with the not at all inconspicuous stares of others, as I pass them in the halls.

Those who come from Wizarding families have grown up hearing the names of these Death Eaters spoken with almost as much fear as Voldemort’s; the crimes they have committed during the days of Voldemort’s reign of terror are legendary. There are relatives of their victims among the Hogwarts students, who now find themselves the unwilling objects of a gruesome sort of reflected fame as they walk the corridors: Susan Bones, who had an uncle, aunt, and cousins who have all died at the hands of one of the ten, says miserably during Herbology that she now has a good idea what it feels like to be Harry.

“And I don’t know how you stand it, it’s horrible,” she says bluntly, dumping far too much dragon manure on her tray of Screechsnap seedlings, causing them to wriggle and squeak in discomfort.

“You grow used to it unfortunately.” I say brushing away some of the excess manure on her seedlings.

It is true that Harry is the subject of much renewed muttering and pointing in the corridors these days, yet I thought I detect a slight difference in the tone of the whisperers’ voices. They sound curious rather than hostile now, and once or twice I am sure I overhear snatches of conversation that suggest that the speakers are not satisfied with the Prophet’s version of how and why ten Death Eaters have managed to break out of Azkaban fortress. In their confusion and fear, these doubters now seem to be turning to the only other explanation available to them, the one that Harry and Dumbledore have been expounding since the previous year.

It’s about time if I do say so myself.

It is not only the students’ mood that has changed. It is now quite common to come across two or three teachers conversing in low, urgent whispers in the corridors, breaking off their conversations the moment they see students approaching.

“They obviously can’t talk freely in the staffroom anymore,” says Hermione in a low voice, as she, Harry, Ron, and I pass Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the Charms classroom one day. “Not with Umbridge there.”

“Reckon they know anything new?” says Ron, gazing back over his shoulder at the three teachers.

“If they do, we’re not going to hear about it, are we?” says Harry angrily. “Not after Decree . . . What number are we on now?”

“Number I don’t give a shit anymore.” I say lividly more pissed at Umbridge than ever, yet still just as terrified.

For new signs have appeared on the house notice boards the morning after news of the Azkaban breakout:

 

——— BY ORDER OF ———

The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts

 

Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.

 

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-six.

 

This latest decree is the subject of a great number of jokes among the students. Lee Jordan pointed out to Umbridge that by the terms of the new rule she is not allowed to tell Fred and George off for playing Exploding Snap in the back of the class. I laughed at hearing that one.

“Exploding Snap’s got nothing to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That’s not information relating to your subject!”

When I next see Lee, the back of his hand is bleeding rather badly. Harry and I recommend essence of murtlap.

I thought that the breakout from Azkaban might have humbled Umbridge a little, that she might have been abashed at the catastrophe that had occurred right under her beloved Fudge’s nose. It seems, however, to have only intensified her furious desire to bring every aspect of life at Hogwarts under her personal control. She seems determined at the very least to achieve a sacking before long, and the only question is whether it will be Professor Trelawney or Hagrid who goes first.

Every single Divination and Care of Magical Creatures lesson is now conducted in the presence of Umbridge and her clipboard. She lurks by the fire in the heavily perfumed tower room, interrupting Professor Trelawney’s increasingly hysterical talks with difficult questions about Ornithomancy and Heptomology, insisting that she predicts students’ answers before they give them and demanding that she demonstrate her skill at the crystal ball, the tea leaves, and the rune stones in turn.

I think that Professor Trelawney may soon crack under the strain; several times I pass her in the corridors (in itself a very unusual occurrence as she generally remains in her tower room), muttering wildly to herself, wringing her hands, and shooting terrified glances over her shoulder, all the time giving off a powerful smell of cooking sherry. If I was not so worried about Hagrid, I would feel sorry for her — but if one of them is to be ousted out of a job, there can be only one choice for me as to who should remain. Harry, Ron and Hermione vehemently agree with me on that point.

Unfortunately, I cannot see that Hagrid is putting up a better show than Trelawney. Though he seems to be following Hermione’s advice and has shown us nothing more frightening than a crup, a creature indistinguishable from a Jack Russell terrier except for its forked tail, since before Christmas, he also seems to have lost his nerve.  

He is oddly distracted and jumpy in lessons, losing the thread of what he is saying while talking to the class, answering questions wrongly and glancing anxiously at Umbridge all the time. He is also more distant with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me than he has ever been before, expressly forbidding us to visit him after dark.

“If she catches yeh, it’ll be all of our necks on the line,” he tells us flatly, and with no desire to do anything that jeopardizes his job further, we abstain from walking down to his hut in the evenings.

The only thing left that we really seem to have going for us around here is the D.A. and that’s only because Umbridge hasn’t found out about it yet.

Harry is pleased to see that all of us, even Zacharias Smith, has been spurred to work harder than ever by the news that ten more Death Eaters are now on the loose, but in nobody is this improvement more pronounced than in Neville. The news of his parents’ attacker’s escape has wrought a strange and even slightly alarming change in him. He has not once mentioned his meeting with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me on the closed ward in St. Mungo’s, and taking our lead from him, we have kept quiet about it too. Nor has he said anything on the subject of Bellatrix and her fellow torturers’ escape; in fact, he barely speaks during D.A. meetings anymore, but works relentlessly on every new jinx and countercurse Harry teaches us, his plump face screwed up in concentration, apparently indifferent to injuries or accidents, working harder than anyone else in the room.

It shocks and impresses Ariana and I who compliment him on it as much as we can. Things are still awkward between us since Fred walked in on our almost kiss. If anything Ariana seems almost bashful which is the opposite of what I’ve grown to expect from her. I’m still not exactly sure what to do about it, for each time I try to bring it up, I get tongue tied, or someone intrudes on our private moment.

The group as a whole has finally learned how to master shield charms which is advanced. I liked the Charms part of the work, for it was the one subject I really excelled in and I could try and help other people master the proper wand movements.

Harry’s lessons in Occlumency on the other hand have been going down hill. In his words he’s seemingly getting worse after each private lesson that he has with Snape.

“Maybe it’s a bit like an illness,” says Hermione, looking concerned when Harry confides in the three of us. “A fever or something. It has to get worse before it gets better.”

“It’s lessons with Snape that are making it worse,” says Harry flatly. “I’m getting sick of my scar hurting, and I’m getting bored walking down that corridor every night.” He rubs his forehead angrily. “I just wish the door would open, I’m sick of standing staring at it —”

“Well if we knew how to do it Harry we’d help you out.” I tell him biting down on my lip.

“That’s not funny,” says Hermione sharply ignoring me. “Dumbledore doesn’t want you to have dreams about that corridor at all, or he wouldn’t have asked Snape to teach you Occlumency. You’re just going to have to work a bit harder in your lessons.”

“I am working!” says Harry, nettled. “You try it sometime, Snape trying to get inside your head, it’s not a bundle of laughs, you know!”

“Maybe . . .” says Ron slowly.

“Maybe what?” says Hermione rather snappishly.

“Maybe it’s not Harry’s fault he can’t close his mind,” says Ron darkly.

“What do you mean?” says Hermione.

“Well, maybe Snape isn’t really trying to help Harry . . .”

Harry, Hermione, and I stare at him. Ron looks darkly and meaningfully from each one of us to the other.

“Maybe,” he says again in a lower voice, “he’s actually trying to open Harry’s mind a bit wider . . . make it easier for You-Know —”

My eyes widen at that thought.

“Shut up, Ron,” says Hermione angrily. “How many times have you suspected Snape, and when have you ever been right? Dumbledore trusts him, he works for the Order, that ought to be enough.”

“He used to be a Death Eater,” says Ron stubbornly. “And we’ve never seen proof that he really swapped sides . . .”

“Dumbledore trusts him,” Hermione repeats. “And if we can’t trust Dumbledore, we can’t trust anyone.”

In times like these who can you truly trust?

* * *

 

With so much to worry about and so much to do — startling amounts of homework that frequently keeps the fifth years working until past midnight, and secret D.A. meetings — January seems to be passing alarmingly fast. Before I know it, February has arrived, bringing with it wetter and warmer weather and the prospect of the second Hogsmeade visit of the year. Harry had agreed to spend the entirety of Valentine’s Day with Cho as it turns out. I’m not sure whether to find that encouraging or embarrassing for him. I meanwhile have been working on something for a certain Dumbledore for the occasion.

On the morning of the fourteenth I find Harry dressed particularly carefully. He, Ron, and I arrive at breakfast just in time for the arrival of the post owls. Dionysus is not there — not that I was expecting him — but Hermione is tugging a letter from the beak of an unfamiliar brown owl as we sit down.

“And about time! If it hadn’t come today . . .” she says eagerly, tearing open the envelope and pulling out a small piece of parchment. Her eyes speed from left to right as she reads through the message and a grimly pleased expression spreads across her face.

“Listen, Harry, Jamie,” she says, looking up at us. “This is really important. . . . Do you think two think you could meet me in the Three Broomsticks around midday?”

“Well . . . I dunno,” says Harry dubiously. “Cho might be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We never said what we were going to do.”

“Well, bring her along if you must,” says Hermione urgently. “But will you come?”

“Well . . . all right, but why?”

“I’ve got nothing better to do today.” I say with a shrug, thinking about the one thing that I really needed to do, but my target isn’t within sight yet.

“I haven’t got time to tell you now, I’ve got to answer this quickly —” Hermione says hurriedly.

“Oh, by the way thank you so much for my gift, I love her.” Hermione says with a happy blush on her cheeks. Harry and I grin at each other. We had quite the surprise a few days ago that Dobby alerted us to. Our respective charges Hedwig and Dionysus got some long awaited offspring. Harry and I had decided to gift their babies to our friends, as long as they agreed that the parents could look after them until they were big enough to live away from them. We had brought Hermione up to the owlry yesterday to see the one we decided to give to her.

Hermione hurries out of the Great Hall, the letter clutched in one hand and a piece of uneaten toast in the other.

“Are you coming?” Harry asks Ron, but he shakes his head, looking glum.

“I can’t come into Hogsmeade at all, Angelina wants a full day’s training. Like it’s going to help — we’re the worst team I’ve ever seen. You should see Sloper and Kirke, they’re pathetic, even worse than I am.” He heaved a great sigh. “I dunno why Angelina won’t just let me resign . . .”

“It’s because you’re good when you’re on form, that’s why,” says Harry irritably. Harry has been having a hard time talking to Ron about Quidditch lately its been making him very bitter. I don’t blame him much for I’ve been having the same problem.

Once Ron glumly heads out to the Quidditch pitch Harry turns to me. “Ready to go?” He asks. I shake my head.

“Sorry Harry, I’ll see you later with Hermione. I need to catch Ari this morning.” I tell him apologetically.

Harry sighs and turns to the doors to leave for Hogsmeade. I swear that boy’s not acting like he’s going out on a date at all. As soon as Harry’s left Ariana Dumbledore finally meanders into the Great Hall when it’s mostly empty of occupants. She pours herself a glass of orange juice while yawning widely.

“Took you long enough Dumbledore.” I mutter. I open my satchel at my feet, and with a complex flick of my wrist I let a grin slip onto my face. Out of my bag crawl a multitude of paper badgers that I’ve created. They fly up and over to the Hufflepuff table where they start marching over to the unsuspecting blond girl.

When the first one approaches her elbow, that’s when Ariana notices them. Her brown eyes widen, and a smile slips onto her face. She watches in amusement as the small badgers start climbing over themselves to form words. Once the last one is in place, she laughs out loud, smile widely at the badgers spell out: HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

Ariana immediately laughs again as after a few seconds they all start doing a complex series of flips before, turning back to regular paper again. She turns her head and finds me. I make my way over to her, and seeing as we’re practically the only ones left in the hall, sit down at the table across from her.

“That was quite something. I loved it Jamie!” She exclaims with a large smile on her face. I grin happily at that.

“Good. I didn’t know exactly what to do… I mean we’re not— you know— I guess what I’m trying to say…” I flounder helplessly. Her laugh makes me stop, while blushing furiously at my inability to forms sentences suddenly.

“Its okay Jamie, I completely understand. This is new for you. Believe it or not it is for me as well, I’ve just had a longer time to come to terms with this than you. Just know, that I’m willing to take it at any pace that you need.” Ariana tells me locking onto my gaze.

A shiver runs down my spine at her words, and I’m definitely sure that I’m blushing by now. I tighten my grip on my bag. “Thanks.” I say sincerely, hoping to convey just how much I’m feeling into the word.

We sit there in silence for a few minutes as she has some breakfast. “Why are you so late anyway?” I suddenly ask. She cocks an eyebrow at the question and swallows a mouthful of her porridge.

“Late night of studying. I didn’t fall asleep until two.” She says sheepishly. I nod my head in understanding.

“Well, then I think you deserve a prize for being so responsible.” I grin. That catches her attention.

“A prize first I get a show, and now I get a prize? You better watch out Pendragon, or a girl’s going to start feeling special.” She teases, with twinkling eyes. I feel my cheeks start to hurt with how widely I’m grinning.

“I can’t help it if that’s how it’s coming off. Now come on, I can’t wait for you to see it!” I exclaim jumping to my feet, Ariana chuckles rising slowly after me, while grabbing an extra slice of toast.

“Okay Pendragon color me intrigued.” She says following behind me out of the Great Hall.

The girl peppers me with questions as we make our way through the halls, and I carefully avoid each one of them. When we reach our final destination Ariana’s totally confused. “You hid my prize in the owlry?” She asks. My grin is absolutely devious, and I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet.

“No, now come on. You’re going to have to be quiet though. We don’t want to scare them.” I explain, holding a finger up to my mouth. Ariana looks like she’s going to protest for a moment, but then she takes the hand that I stretch out to her. We climb further into the owlry until we come to a stop at the cubby that Di and Hedwig had taken over, as it is one of the bigger ones.

A gasp comes from the girl as she looks on at the sight. There in the cubby is a big next with the two proud parent owls sitting to the side of it. Inside the next are three tiny baby owls the biggest of the three is a small mini version of Hedwig nestled close to the edge of the nest by Di. She peeps her eyes open to stare at us for a second before closing.

“Wow.” Ariana says softly. I grin at her happily.

“The white one there that takes after her Mum is named Avalon. Harry and I decided that when she’s big enough that she’s going to belong to Hermione. She doesn’t have her own owl and we thought that she really deserved one. She named her.” I say proudly. Ariana’s grin widens.

“That’s the perfect name for her, she seems a little imperial to me.” Ariana giggles. I don’t think that I could ever get tired of hearing her do that. The next biggest is an owl with a tawny color like Dionysus but who has a smattering of white flecks throughout his feathers.

“That one is going to Ginny, if Ron can have his own owl so can she. I literally have never seen her so excited before. I seriously think that she cracked a few of my ribs. His name is Pip.”

“Another great name.” She says as she watches Pip try and hop his way over to Avalon only to have her send him a pint sized glare, not that that deters him any. “And the last one?”

Ariana gestures to the smallest owl of them all. He’s a full bodied tawny color except for the two pure white rings that going around his eyes, like cute little glasses. I grin deviously, as she’s not watching me.

“Well, he doesn’t have a name yet.” I say with a shrug. Ariana turns to me with a puzzled look.

“Well why not?” She demands. I roll my eyes at that.

“Because you haven’t named him yet.” I reveal. It takes all of three seconds for the blond girl to realize what I’m saying.

“You mean… he’s mine?” She whispers. I nod my head proudly.

“As soon as he’s big enough.”

I get thrown back a step by the forcefulness of Ariana’s hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She whispers tearfully. I swallow the lump that has taken up residence in my throat.

“Harry decided as well.” I manage to get out. Ariana gives a watery laugh at that.

“Harry only decided to go along with it for you thought that it was a good idea.”

Well there wasn’t any way that I could deny that. We both turn back to look at the little guy nestled next to his mum.

“So… what are you going to name him?” I ask her. She bites down on her lower lip, before smiling at the little antics that he’s pulling by trying to climb on top of Hedwig, which she definitely does not seem to appreciate.

“Hmm… I think I’ll name him Scribbles.” She says with a definite nod of her head. I raise an eyebrow at that name.

“Scribbles?” I question. She nods resolutely.

“He just seems like a Scribbles to me.” Is all she gives as explanation. I shrug my shoulders at that.

“Okay, well welcome into the world Scribbles. Ariana here is going to take really good care of you.” I say leaning a little bit closer to the tiny owl who has made it to the top of Hedwig’s head.

“Yeah I am.” Ariana says.

When I turn to look at her I find that its not Scribbles she’s looking at but me. I’m pretty sure the blush that stays on my face doesn’t go away for a few hours at that.

* * *

 

I make my way to the very crowded Three Broomsticks at noon, and fight to see if I can catch a glimpse of where Harry and Hermione are sitting. It also doesn’t hurt to look for Cho, but I’m not sure how well all of that has gone over. Finally I manage to see a mop of unruly black hair and I make my way over to the secluded corner table to find Harry, Hermione, Luna Lovegood, and of all people Rita Skeeter sitting there.

I stop dead in front of the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I say blankly, my good mood from earlier gone at the sight of that insect sitting there.

“Jamie behave, there’s a reason for all of this.” Hermione tells me, and I roll my eyes before sitting down next to Harry. He doesn’t seem all that pleased at what happening either. Though he doesn’t look all that happy in general now that I look twice.

“What are you up to?” I demand warily. Harry snorts from beside me.

“That’s exactly what I said.” He says.

“Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived,” says Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. “I suppose I’m allowed to talk to him, am I?” she shoots at Hermione.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” says Hermione coldly.

Unemployment does not suit Rita. The hair that had once been set in elaborate curls now hangs lank and unkempt around her face. The scarlet paint on her two-inch talons is chipped and there are a couple of false jewels missing from her winged glasses. She takes another great gulp of her drink and says out of the corner of her mouth, “Pretty girl, is she, Harry?”

I can only assume that she’s referring to Cho, though I don’t see her anywhere. I’ll ask him about it later.

“One more word about Harry’s love life and the deal’s off and that’s a promise,” says Hermione irritably.

“What deal?” says Rita, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “You haven’t mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy, you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days . . .” She takes a deep shuddering breath.

“Yes, yes, one of these days you’ll write more horrible stories about Harry and me,” says Hermione indifferently. “Find someone who cares, why don’t you?”

“They’ve run plenty of horrible stories about Harry this year without my help,” says Rita, shooting a sideways look at him over the top of her glass and adding in a rough whisper, “How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?”

“One more verb out of you, and you’ll be feeling my foot in your backside.” I growl, still hating this woman with every fiber of my body. That shuts her up for a second at least.

“He feels angry, of course,” says Hermione in a hard, clear voice. “Because he’s told the Minister of Magic the truth and the Minister’s too much of an idiot to believe him.”

“So you actually stick to it, do you, that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?” says Rita, lowering her glass and subjecting Harry to a piercing stare while her finger strayed longingly to the clasp of the crocodile bag. “You stand by all this garbage Dumbledore’s been telling everybody about You-Know-Who returning and you being the sole witness — ?”

“I wasn’t the sole witness,” snarls Harry. “There were a dozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their names?”

“I’d love them,” breathes Rita, now fumbling in her bag once more and gazing at him as though he is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. “A great bold headline: ‘Potter Accuses . . .’ A subheading: ‘Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us.’ And then, beneath a nice big photograph of you: ‘Disturbed teenage survivor of You-Know-Who’s attack, Harry Potter, 15, caused outrage yesterday by accusing respectable and prominent members of the Wizarding community of being Death Eaters . . .’”

The Quick-Quotes Quill is actually in her hand and halfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression dies out of her face.

“But of course,” she says, lowering the quill and looking daggers at Hermione, “Little Miss Perfect wouldn’t want that story out there, would she?”

“As a matter of fact,” says Hermione sweetly, “that’s exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want.”

Rita stares at her. So do Harry and I. Luna, on the other hand, sings, “Weasley Is Our King” dreamily under her breath and stirs her drink with a cocktail onion on a stick.

“You want me to report what he says about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” Rita asks Hermione in a hushed voice.

“Yes, I do,” says Hermione. “The true story. All the facts. Exactly as Harry reports them. He’ll give you all the details, he’ll tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eaters he saw there, he’ll tell you what Voldemort looks like now — oh, get a grip on yourself,” she adds contemptuously, throwing a napkin across the table, for at the sound of Voldemort’s name, Rita jumped so badly that she slopped half her glass of firewhisky down herself.

“Its midday you shouldn’t be drinking either.” I say with a frown.

Rita blots the front of her grubby raincoat, still staring at Hermione. Then she says baldly, “The Prophet wouldn’t print it. In case you haven’t noticed, nobody believes his cock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks he’s delusional. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle —”

“We don’t need another story about how Harry’s lost his marbles!” says Hermione angrily. “We’ve had plenty of those already, thank you! I want him given the opportunity to tell the truth!”

“There’s no market for a story like that,” says Rita coldly.

“You mean the Prophet won’t print it because Fudge won’t let them,” says Hermione irritably.

I raise my eyebrow at that. Lets see her get around that one.

Rita gives Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning forward across the table towards her, she says in a businesslike tone, “All right, Fudge is leaning on the Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won’t print a story that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody wants to read it. It’s against the public mood. This last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried enough. People just don’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back.”

“So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?” says Hermione scathingly.

Rita sits up straight again, her eyebrows raised, and drains her glass of firewhisky.

“The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl,” she says coldly.

“That’s not right.” I growl.

“The world’s not right girl.” Rita returns.

“My dad thinks it’s an awful paper,” says Luna, chipping into the conversation unexpectedly. Sucking on her cocktail onion, she gazes at Rita with her enormous, protuberant, slightly mad eyes. “He publishes important stories that he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn’t care about making money.”

Rita looks disparagingly at Luna.

“I’m guessing your father runs some stupid little village newsletter?” she says.  “‘Twenty-five Ways to Mingle with Muggles’ and the dates of the next Bring-and-Fly Sale?”

“No,” says Luna, dipping her onion back into her gillywater, “he’s the editor of The Quibbler.”

Rita snorts so loudly that people at a nearby table look around in alarm.

“‘Important stories he thinks the public needs to know’?” she says witheringly. “I could manure my garden with the contents of that rag.”

“Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, isn’t it?” says Hermione pleasantly. “Luna says her father’s quite happy to take Harry’s interview. That’s who’ll be publishing it.”

Rita stares at them both for a moment and then lets out a great whoop of laughter.

“The Quibbler!” she says, cackling. “You think people will take him seriously if he’s published in The Quibbler?”

“Some people won’t,” says Hermione in a level voice. “But the Daily Prophet’s version of the Azkaban breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of people will be wondering whether there isn’t a better explanation of what happened, and if there’s an alternative story available, even if it is published in a” — she glances sideways at Luna, “in a — well, an unusual magazine — I think they might be rather keen to read it.”

Rita does not say anything for a while, but eyes Hermione shrewdly, her head a little to one side.

“All right, let’s say for a moment I’ll do it,” she says abruptly. “What kind of fee am I going to get?”

“I don’t think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine,” says Luna dreamily. “They do it because it’s an honor, and, of course, to see their names in print.”

Rita Skeeter looks as though the taste of Stinksap is strong in her mouth again as she rounds on Hermione. “I’m supposed to do this for free?”

“Well, yes,” says Hermione calmly, taking a sip of her drink. “Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for an insider’s account of life in Azkaban . . .”

Rita looks as though she would like nothing better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione’s drink and thrust it up her nose.

“I don’t suppose I’ve got any choice, have I?” says Rita, her voice shaking slightly. She opens her crocodile bag once more, withdraws a piece of parchment, and raises her Quick-Quotes Quill.

“Daddy will be pleased,” says Luna brightly. A muscle twitched in Rita’s jaw.

“Okay, Harry?” says Hermione, turning to him. “Ready to tell the public the truth?”

“I suppose,” says Harry, watching Rita balancing the Quick-Quotes Quill at the ready on the parchment between them.

“Fire away, then, Rita,” says Hermione serenely, fishing a cherry out of the bottom of her glass.

“So wait… why exactly am I here?” I demand glaring at Hermione.

“Oh lets just chalk it down to intimidation factor.” She grins.

“I’m not sure whether to be insulted or pleased by that statement.” I say.


	23. Seen and Unforseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 23- Seen and Unforeseen

 

Luna said vaguely that she does not know how soon Rita’s interview with Harry will appear in The Quibbler, that her father is expecting a lovely long article on recent sightings of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. “And, of course, that’ll be a very important story, so Harry’s might have to wait for the following issue,” says Luna.

Harry is not sure how well the article will go over, but I have a feeling that even though it will be posted in something as odd and trivial as the Quibbler that it will garner the attention of quite a few people.

“Can’t wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going public,” says Dean, sounding awestruck at dinner on Monday night. Seamus is shoveling down large amounts of chicken-and-ham pie on Dean’s other side, but I know he is listening.

“It’s the right thing to do, Harry,” says Neville, who is sitting opposite him. He is rather pale, but goes on in a low voice, “It must have been . . . tough . . . talking about it. . . . Was it?”

“Yeah,” mumbles Harry, “but people have got to know what Voldemort’s capable of, haven’t they?”

“That’s right,” says Neville, nodding, “and his Death Eaters too . . . People should know . . .”

“Yeah, though I’m not sure that a lot of people are ever going to be able to forget about what they can do even if they want to.” I say grimly, staring down at my food, having suddenly lost my appetite.

After a while Dean, Seamus, and Neville depart for the common room, leaving Harry, Hermione, and me at the table waiting for Ron, who has not yet have dinner because of Quidditch practice. What is it with people and coming to meals late today?

Cho Chang walks into the hall with her friend Marietta. Harry looks like he’s going to be sick, and she doesn’t even look out way, sitting down with her back to us.

“That well huh?” I murmur under my breath.

“Oh, I forgot to ask you,” says Hermione brightly, glancing over at the Ravenclaw table, “what happened on your date with Cho? How come you were back so early?”

“Er . . . well, it was . . .” says Harry, pulling a dish of rhubarb crumble towards him and helping himself to seconds, “a complete fiasco, now you mention it.”

And he tells us what happened in Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. Harry pretty much stepped in a major pile of dragon dung and then proceeded to flail and drown in it for the whole time. That’s what I get out of it all.

“. . . so then,” he finishes several minutes later, as the final bit of crumble disappears, “she jumps up, right, and says ‘I’ll see you around, Harry,’ and runs out of the place!” He puts down his spoon and looks at Hermione and me. “I mean, what was all that about? What was going on?”

Hermione glances over at the back of Cho’s head and sighs. “Oh, Harry,” she says sadly. “Well, I’m sorry, but you were a bit tactless.”

“Even I knew this and I’ve been called emotionally stunted before.” I say thinking back to some of Hermione’s rather harsh rants against me. She doesn’t even look sorry for calling me that before.

“Me, tactless?” says Harry, outraged. “One minute we were getting on fine, next minute she was telling me that Roger Davies asked her out, and how she used to go and snog Cedric in that stupid tea shop — how was I supposed to feel about that?”

“Well, you see,” says Hermione, with the patient air of one explaining that one plus one equals two to an overemotional toddler, “you shouldn’t have told her that you wanted to meet me halfway through your date.”

“But, but,” splutters Harry, “but — you told me to meet you at twelve and to bring her along, how was I supposed to do that without telling her — ?”

“You should have told her differently,” says Hermione, still with that maddeningly patient air. “You should have said it was really annoying, but I’d made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn’t want to go, you’d much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you, and hopefully you’d be able to get away more quickly? And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am too,” Hermione adds as an afterthought.

I snicker at the look on Harry’s face. Even being an ‘emotionally stunted’ girl, I’m still far better off than the average boy. This is definitely prime entertainment right here.

“But I don’t think you’re ugly,” says Harry, bemused.

Hermione laughs. “Good thing you didn’t tell her that I was going to be meeting you as well.” I chuckle, and Hermione can’t help but grin at the thought of that situation as well. Harry just looks back and forth between us bewilderedly.

“Harry, you’re worse than Ron. . . . Well, no, you’re not,” she sighs, as Ron himself comes stumping into the Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy.  “Look — you upset Cho when you said you were going to meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her way of trying to find out how much you liked her.”

“Is that what she was doing?” says Harry as Ron drops onto the bench opposite us and pulls every dish within reach towards himself. “Well, wouldn’t it have been easier if she’d just asked me whether I liked her better than you?”

“Girls don’t often ask questions like that,” says Hermione.

“Well, they should!” says Harry forcefully. “Then I could’ve just told her I fancy her, and she wouldn’t have had to get herself all worked up again about Cedric dying!”

“That would take all the fun out of dating and frustrating boys out of it though.” I muse. Hermione smacks me on the arm for that comment.

“I’m not saying what she did was sensible,” says Hermione, as Ginny joins us, just as muddy as Ron and looking equally disgruntled. I smile at her, and she returns it with an exhausted look. “I’m just trying to make you see how she was feeling at the time.”

“You should write a book,” Ron tells Hermione as he cuts up his potatoes, “translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them.”

“Yeah,” says Harry fervently, looking over at the Ravenclaw table. Cho has just got up; still not looking at him, she leaves the Great Hall. Feeling rather depressed, he looks back at Ron and Ginny. “So, how was Quidditch practice?”

“It was a nightmare,” says Ron in a surly voice. I wince not liking the sound of this.

“Oh come on,” says Hermione, looking at Ginny, “I’m sure it wasn’t that —”

“Yes, it was,” says Ginny. “It was appalling. Angelina was nearly in tears by the end of it.”

I look down at my plate feeling guilt gnawing away at me. I didn’t want to hear that. I hate that I was kicked off the team because of something that I didn’t even do.

Ron and Ginny go off for baths after dinner; Harry, Hermione, and I return to the busy Gryffindor common room and our usual pile of homework. Harry and I have been struggling with a new star chart for Astronomy for half an hour when Fred and George turn up.

“Ron and Ginny not here?” asks Fred, looking around as he pulls up a chair and, when Harry shakes his head, he says, “Good. We were watching their practice. They’re going to be slaughtered. They’re complete rubbish without us.” I wince again.

“Really?” I ask faintly.

“Come on, Ginny’s not bad,” says George fairly, sitting down next to Fred.  “Actually, I dunno how she got so good, seeing how we never let her play with us . . .”

“She’s been breaking into your broom shed in the garden since the age of six and taking each of your brooms out in turn when you weren’t looking, and I’ve been flying and practicing with her since I moved in with you guys” I say simply.

“So that’s where you always disappeared to!” George cries. I grin at them and shrug my shoulders.

“She’s good. What can I say?” I grin.

“Oh,” says Fred, looking mildly impressed. “Well — that’d explain it.”

“Has Ron saved a goal yet?” asks Hermione, peering over the top of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms.

“Well, he can do it if he doesn’t think anyone’s watching him,” says Fred, rolling his eyes. “So all we have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up his end on Saturday.”

He gets up again and moves restlessly to the window, staring out across the dark grounds.

“You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in this place worth staying for.”

Hermione casts him a stern look.

“You’ve got exams coming!”

“Told you already, we’re not fussed about N.E.W.T.s,” says Fred. “The Snackboxes are ready to roll, we found out how to get rid of those boils, just a couple of drops of murtlap essence sorts them, Lee put us onto it . . .”

George yawns widely and looks out disconsolately at the cloudy night sky.

“I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If Zacharias Smith beats us I might have to kill myself.”

“Oh Merlin I totally forgot that. That vile toad, I think I’ll kill her instead!” I cry distressed.

“Kill him, more like,” says Fred firmly.

“That’s the trouble with Quidditch,” says Hermione absentmindedly, once again bent over her Rune translation, “it creates all this bad feeling and tension between the Houses.”

She looks up to find her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary and catches Fred, George, Harry, and me looking at her with expressions of mingled disgust and incredulity on our faces.

“Well, it does!” she says impatiently. “It’s only a game, isn’t it?”

“Hermione,” says Harry, shaking his head, “you’re good on feelings and stuff, but you just don’t understand about Quidditch.”

“Maybe not,” she says darkly, returning to her translation again, “but at least my happiness doesn’t depend on Ron’s goalkeeping ability.”

I wish that I were more like Hermione when it came to that. And though Harry and I would rather have jumped off the Astronomy Tower than admit it to her, by the time we watched the game the following Saturday we would have given any number of Galleons not to care about Quidditch either.

The very best thing you could say about the match is that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It is hard to say what the worst thing was: I think it is a close-run contest between Ron’s fourteenth failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke shrieking and falling backward off his broom as Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle. The miracle is that Gryffindor only lost by ten points: Ginny managed to snatch the Snitch from right under Hufflepuff Seeker Summerby’s nose, so that the final score was two hundred and forty versus two hundred and thirty.

I gave her a giant hug after the match almost crying in relief that my new sister was able to show that our team still had some skill left to speak of.

“Good catch,” Harry tells Ginny back in the common room, where the atmosphere closely resembles that of a particularly dismal funeral.

“I was lucky,” she shrugs. “It wasn’t a very fast Snitch and Summerby’s got a cold, he sneezed and closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Anyway, once the two’ve you are back on the team —”

“Ginny, we’ve got a lifelong ban.” I counter.

“You’re banned as long as Umbridge is in the school,” Ginny corrects me. “There’s a difference. Anyway, once you’re back, I think I’ll try out for Chaser with you Jame. Angelina is leaving next year and I prefer goal-scoring to Seeking anyway.”

I grin at her for that thought, clapping her hand, thinking about how much fun it will be to play on the same team with her, now I only have to kill— I mean kick the toad out of here.

Harry looks over at Ron, who is hunched in a corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of butterbeer clutched in his hand.

“Angelina still won’t let him resign,” Ginny says, as though reading Harry’s mind. “She says she knows he’s got it in him.”

I liked Angelina for the faith she is showing in Ron, but at the same time think it would really be kinder to let him leave the team. Ron left the pitch to another booming chorus of “Weasley Is Our King” sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who are now favorites to win the Quidditch Cup.

Fred and George wander over.

“I haven’t got the heart to take the mickey out of him, even,” says Fred, looking over at Ron’s crumpled figure. “Mind you . . . when he missed the fourteenth . . .”

He makes wild motions with his arms as though doing an upright doggy-paddle.

“Well, I’ll save it for parties, eh?”

Ron grumbles and goes upstairs to bed, and I heave a long sigh. This year is just slowly falling apart around us. Fred and George are not enjoying school, not that I am either, Umbridge won’t teach us, Hagrid might get sacked, professor Dumbledore won’t talk to us, and now we can’t play Quidditch.

One of the only things going to me here is that whatever it is that I have going on with Ariana doesn’t seem to be affected by all this.

* * *

We enter the Great Hall for breakfast at exactly the same moment as the post owls on Monday morning. Hermione is not the only person eagerly awaiting her Daily Prophet: Nearly everyone is eager for more news about the escaped Death Eaters, who, despite many reported sightings, have still not been caught. That keeps me up each night thinking about all the trouble that my ‘uncle’ could be getting into. She gives the delivery owl a Knut and unfolds the newspaper eagerly while Harry helps himself to orange juice; as he has only received one note during the entire year he is sure, when the first owl lands with a thud in front of him, that it has made a mistake.

He mutters to the owl, and soon there practically a whole flock of them landing on our table trying to get Harry’s attention. I pick up my plate of food and hold it out of the owls way so that I don’t get feathers or feces for breakfast.

“What’s going on?” Ron asks in amazement, as the whole of Gryffindor table leans forward to watch as another seven owls land amongst the first ones, screeching, hooting, and flapping their wings.

“Harry!” says Hermione breathlessly, plunging her hands into the feathery mass and pulling out a screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package. “I think I know what this means — open this one first!”

Harry rips off the brown packaging. Out rolls a tightly furled copy of March’s edition of The Quibbler. He unrolls it to see his own face grinning sheepishly at him from the front cover. In large red letters across his picture are the words:

 

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST: THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” says Luna, who has drifted over to the Gryffindor table and now squeezes herself onto the bench between Fred and Ron. “It came out yesterday, I asked Dad to send you a free copy. I expect all these,” she waves a hand at the assembled owls still scrabbling around on the table in front of Harry, “are letters from readers.”

“That’s what I thought,” says Hermione eagerly, “Harry, d’you mind if we — ?”

“Help yourself,” says Harry, feeling slightly bemused.

Ron, Hermione, and I start ripping open envelopes. At least something interesting is happening today.

“This one’s from a bloke who thinks you’re off your rocker,” says Ron, glancing down his letter. “Ah well . . .”

“This woman recommends you try a good course of Shock Spells at St. Mungo’s,” says Hermione, looking disappointed and crumpling up a second.

“This one looks okay, though,” says Harry slowly, scanning a long letter from a witch in Paisley. “Hey, she says she believes me!”

“This one’s in two minds,” said Fred, who has joined in the letter-opening with enthusiasm. “Says you don’t come across as a mad person, but he really doesn’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back so he doesn’t know what to think now. . . . Blimey, what a waste of parchment . . .”

“Here’s another one you’ve convinced, Harry!” I say excitedly. “‘Having read your side of the story I am forced to the conclusion that the Daily Prophet has treated you very unfairly. . . . Little though I want to think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling the truth . . .’ Oh this is wonderful!”

“Another one who thinks you’re barking,” says Ron, throwing a crumpled letter over his shoulder, “but this one says you’ve got her converted, and she now thinks you’re a real hero — she’s put in a photograph too — wow —”

“What is going on here?” says a falsely sweet, girlish voice. A cold shiver runs down my spine, and I look up against my better judgment even though what I truly wish to do is crawl into a hole an just not come out again.

Harry looks up with his hands full of envelopes. Professor Umbridge is standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad’s eyes scanning the mess of owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind her I see many of the students watching us avidly including the curious yet worried eyes of Ariana.

“Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?” she asks slowly.

“Because he’s famous?” I say rolling my eyes. She narrows her eyes at me.

“Is that a crime now?” says Fred loudly. “Getting mail?”

“Be careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in detention,” says Umbridge. I pale at that, and shake my head strongly at Fred. “Well, Mr. Potter?”

Harry hesitates, but he does not see how he could keep what he had done quiet; it is surely only a matter of time before a copy of The Quibbler comes to Umbridge’s attention.

“People have written to me because I gave an interview,” says Harry. “About what happened to me last June.”

“An interview?” repeats Umbridge, her voice thinner and higher than ever. “What do you mean?”

“I mean a reporter asked me questions and I answered them,” says Harry. “Here —”

And he throws the copy of The Quibbler at her. She catches it and stares down at the cover. Her pale, doughy face turns an ugly, patchy violet.

“When did you do this?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

“Last Hogsmeade weekend,” says Harry.

She looks up at him, incandescent with rage, the magazine shaking in her stubby fingers.

“There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. Potter,” she whispers. “How you dare . . . how you could . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message, apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor and another week’s worth of detentions.”

“You can’t do that! You’re now punishing students for using their rights of free speech. You’re nothing other than a dictator Umbridge! You use your power to terrorize and bully the school and the people in it to doing your bidding. The only person who’s out of line here is you, you miserable woman.” I growl. The hall goes deadly silent, and I realize belatedly that both of my hands have flame licking them, and that the rest of my upper torso has blue light glowing on it.

“That is quite enough! I’ve had it just about up to here with you Miss Pendragon. I don’t care if you happen to have the last name of some of our dearest founders! You are nothing more than an abomination! There’s only one thing for people like you…” She hisses. She takes her wand out, and I back up a step suddenly wary of what she would do in front of a room full of people.

“Professor Umbridge.” Professor Dumbledore’s strong voice sounds out from the staff table. He is standing and watching the scene before him playing out with grave eyes. I see my siblings being held down and back, while growling, and Ariana is white and shaking in her seat.

“Miss Pendragon is a student that you are tasked to teach and guide through her school years despite what you may think about her. You may punish her with detention but that is all you may do. With the way you are acting I see it unwise to allow you to handle Miss Pendragon’s punishment from here. Professor McGonagall.” He says nodding to the stern woman who had paled a few shades more.

“Pendragon, with me.” McGonagall barks out. I don’t realize how much I’m shaking until I’m trying to walk away on unsteady legs. I follow her out into the entryway and to the stairs where I almost collapse. The fire has gotten brighter and much harder to control. I feel like I can’t breathe. It hasn’t been this bad since the very first few times that this ever happened.

“I knew this was going to happen.” McGonagall mutters, grabbing onto my arm to keep from falling. Only the slightest twitch in her face indicates that my power is having some effect on her.

“Sorry— professor.” I manage to wheeze out. She glances at me, and it may just be my hazy mind but it seems like her face softens ever so slightly.

“You did better than we thought you would have Pendragon. We’ll protect you with all of the power that we have Jamie. She has no right to say those things about you.” She spits the last part out. I nod my head weakly and relax a little when I see the Hospital Wing in sight.

“Ari…” I say. McGonagall’s eyebrow raises for a moment before she nods once quickly. Soon I’m on a cot and Madam Pomfrey is shoving elixirs at me with a worried look on her face.

“Manifesting too fast… not sure what to expect… worried…” conversation goes on around me but I can only hear bits and pieces of it.

Suddenly there’s a soothing presence beside me. I manage to turn my head and see the form of Ariana. She biting her lip in worry, and I see that she holding my hand that’s still encased in fire. She’s not in pain though. I look at her with bleary mystified eyes.

“Do you think… I guess its possible… legends do say…”

“What do you mean… tell me… deserve to know… can’t do this…”

Heaviness starts to pull down on my eyelids and soon I’m lost to the black void that’s becoming so familiar. 

* * *

I’m pretty much exhausted for the rest of the day. I will serve detention for two weeks with McGonagall but anything is better than being stuck with Umbridge alone for any period of time. I have no idea exactly what happened when I was out of it, but I can tell that it worries the adults, and Ariana is stewing over whatever the said or didn’t say to her, but she isn’t talking.

When I get out of the hospital wing my friends and family pretty much hug me as tight as they can, and subsequently tell me off for losing my temper with her. I honestly don’t really remember what happened, or what I exactly said to her. It was just all one giant blur that ends with a crescendo of emotion and power.

By mid-morning enormous signs have been put up all over the school, not just on House notice boards, but in the corridors and classrooms too.

——— BY ORDER OF ———

The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts

 

Any student found in possession of the magazine The Quibbler will be expelled.

 

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven.

  

For some reason, every time Hermione catches sight of one of these signs she beams with pleasure.

“What exactly are you so happy about?” Harry asks her.

“Oh Harry, don’t you see?” Hermione breathes. “If she could have done one thing to make absolutely sure that every single person in this school will read your interview, it was banning it!”

And it seemed that Hermione is quite right. By the end of that day, though I have not seen so much as a corner of The Quibbler anywhere in the school, the whole place seems to be quoting the interview at each other; I hear them whispering about it as they queue up outside classes, discussing it over lunch and in the back of lessons, while Hermione even reports that every occupant of the cubicles in the girls’ toilets were talking about it when she nips in there before Ancient Runes.

“And then they spotted me, and obviously they know I know you, so they were bombarding me with questions,” Hermione tells Harry, her eyes shining, “and Harry, I think they believe you, I really do, I think you’ve finally got them convinced!”

Meanwhile Professor Umbridge is stalking the school, stopping students at random and demanding that they turn out their books and pockets. I know she is looking for copies of The Quibbler, but the students are several steps ahead of her. The pages carrying Harry’s interview have been bewitched to resemble extracts from textbooks if anyone but themselves read it, or else wipe magically blank until they want to peruse it again. Soon it seems that every single person in the school has read it.

Luckily for me Umbridge is not allowed to come near me except for during class, and even then she has to have another professor sit in the room with us. This Dumbledore himself insisted and he even went over Umbridge’s head to the Minister to approve it. There is something to say about having the Pendragon last name for Fudge was furious that she would attempt to attack me, even with my quote ‘interesting magical abilities’.

To say that Umbridge was not happy with me would be a giant understatement. Nothing changed about her position though as High Inquisitor despite her atrocious behavior, and I am made to apologize to her. It is far from heartfelt but McGonagall accepts in anyway.

The teachers are, of course, forbidden from mentioning the interview by Educational Decree Number Twenty-six, but they find ways to express their feelings about it all the same. Professor Sprout awards Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passes her a watering can; a beaming Professor Flitwick presses a box of squeaking sugar mice on him at the end of Charms, saying “Shh!” and hurries away; and Professor Trelawney breaks into hysterical sobs during Divination and announces to the startled class, and a very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry is not going to suffer an early death after all, but will live to a ripe old age, become Minister of Magic, and have twelve children.

I have to snort at that one, and I whisper to Harry that he should get started on making money to support all twelve of those children.

The thing that makes Harry the happiest though is that Seamus believes him about everything that happened that night now.

If anything more is needed to complete Harry’s happiness, it is Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s reactions. We see them with their heads together later that afternoon in the library, together with a weedy-looking boy Hermione whispers is called Theodore Nott. They look around at Harry as he browses the shelves for the book he needs on Partial Vanishment, and Goyle cracks his knuckles threateningly and Malfoy whispers something undoubtedly malevolent to Crabbe. I know perfectly well why they are acting like this: Harry had named all of their fathers as Death Eaters.

“And the best bit is,” whispers Hermione gleefully as we leave the library, “they can’t contradict you, because they can’t admit they’ve read the article!”

To cap it all, Luna tells us over dinner that no copy of The Quibbler has ever sold out faster.

“Dad’s reprinting!” she tells Harry, her eyes popping excitedly. “He can’t believe it, he says people seem even more interested in this than the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!”

Harry is a hero in the Gryffindor common room that night; daringly, Fred and George have put an Enlargement Charm on the front cover of The Quibbler and hang it on the wall, so that Harry’s giant head gazes down upon the proceedings, occasionally saying things like “The Ministry are morons” and “Eat dung, Umbridge” in a booming voice. Hermione does not find this very amusing; she says it interfers with her concentration, and ends up going to bed early out of irritation. I have to admit that the poster is not quite as funny after an hour or two, especially when the talking spell starts to wear off, so that it merely shouts disconnected words like “Dung” and “Umbridge” at more and more frequent intervals in a progressively higher voice.

That’s when I decide that its time to go to bed as well since my head has been killing me for the later part of the day, and I could use a good rest after what happened this morning.

* * *

So it turns out that Harry had another Voldemort connected dream again. Harry and Ron waited until the next morning to tell Hermione and me all of this though. They want to be absolutely sure we cannot be overheard. Standing in our usual corner of the cool and breezy courtyard, Harry tells us every detail of the dream he can remember. My stomach really wasn’t up for hearing about Voldemort control somebody. When he finishes, Hermione says nothing at all for a few moments, but stares with a kind of painful intensity at Fred and George, who are both headless and selling their magical hats from under their cloaks on the other side of the yard.

“So that’s why they killed him,” she says quietly, withdrawing her gaze from Fred and George at last. “When Bode tried to steal this weapon, something funny happened to him. I think there must be defensive spells on it, or around it, to stop people from touching it. That’s why he was in St. Mungo’s, his brain had gone all funny and he couldn’t talk. But remember what the Healer told us? He was recovering. And they couldn’t risk him getting better, could they? I mean, the shock of whatever happened when he touched that weapon probably made the Imperius Curse lift. Once he’d got his voice back, he’d explain what he’d been doing, wouldn’t he? They would have known he’d been sent to steal the weapon. Of course, it would have been easy for Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him. Never out of the Ministry, is he?”

“He was even hanging around that day I had my hearing,” says Harry. “In the — hang on . . .” he says slowly. “He was in the Department of Mysteries corridor that day! Your dad said he was probably trying to sneak down and find out what happened in my hearing, but what if —”

“Crap.” I say kicking at a loose stone.

“Sturgis,” gasps Hermione, looking thunderstruck.

“Sorry?” says Ron, looking bewildered.

“Sturgis Podmore,” says Hermione, breathlessly. “Arrested for trying to get through a door. Lucius Malfoy got him too. I bet he did it the day you saw him there, Harry. Sturgis had Moody’s Invisibility Cloak, right? So what if he was standing guard by the door, invisible, and Malfoy heard him move, or guessed he was there, or just did the Imperius Curse on the off chance that a guard was there? So when Sturgis next had an opportunity — probably when it was his turn on guard duty again — he tried to get into the department to steal the weapon for Voldemort — Ron, be quiet — but he got caught and sent to Azkaban . . .”

She gazes at Harry.

“And now Rookwood’s told Voldemort how to get the weapon?” I ask seriously not liking how this conversation is going.

“I didn’t hear all the conversation, but that’s what it sounded like,” says Harry.  “Rookwood used to work there. . . . Maybe Voldemort’ll send Rookwood to do it?”

Hermione nods, apparently still lost in thought. Then, quite abruptly, she says, “But you shouldn’t have seen this at all, Harry.”

“What?” he says, taken aback. I bite my lip can’t helping but to agree with Hermione on this one.

“You’re supposed to be learning how to close your mind to this sort of thing,” says Hermione, suddenly stern.

“I know I am,” says Harry. “But —”

“Well, I think we should just try and forget what you saw,” says Hermione firmly. “And you ought to put in a bit more effort on your Occlumency from now on.”

* * *

The next week was pretty much a disaster. All the professors were on edge for Umbridge seemed to be on the war path now that she can’t get her hands on me anymore, not that I’m that valuable to her. The looks of disgust that she throws me in the halls would be amusing if not for the actual power that she has to back it all up.

Most of the students in my class murmur their thanks for having me stick up for them because now Umbridge can’t be completely nasty while in the classroom, when she has Madam Pomfrey sitting in class most of the time, since other professors are teaching.

As for my detentions with McGonagall they’re not as bad as I would have thought they’d be. Mostly she has me sit in a first row desk in the classroom near hers and undo all the transfiguration charms on the animals from my class and the lower grades. She hasn’t really even given me a talking to at that either; I guess that the professors are starting to get fed up with the toad as well.

As I was finishing up my detention with McGonagall she was walking with me towards the Great Hall so that the pair of us could get some late dinner, when we noticed what exactly was going on. It didn’t hurt that practically the entire school was there to witness the display. Professor McGonagall quickly abandoned me, and I don’t blame her one bit.

Students were flooding the entrance way and standing on the staircases to get a good look. I pushed my way through the crowd so as to see what’s going on better.

The onlookers have formed a great ring, some of them looking shocked, others even frightened. Professor McGonagall is nearby; she looks as though what she is watching makes her feel faintly sick.

Professor Trelawney is standing in the middle of the entrance hall with her wand in one hand and an empty sherry bottle in the other, looking utterly mad. Her hair is sticking up on end, her glasses are lopsided so that one eye is magnified more than the other; her innumerable shawls and scarves are trailing haphazardly from her shoulders, giving the impression that she is falling apart at the seams. Two large trunks lay on the floor beside her, one of them upside down; it looks very much as though it was thrown down the stairs after her. Professor Trelawney is staring, apparently terrified, at something I cannot not see but that seems to be standing at the foot of the stairs.

Suddenly there’s a warm hand wrapped around mine. I look up startled to see the grave brown eyes of Ariana Dumbledore. “Ari?” I question concernedly.

“You have to stay calm Jamie. Just watch, but keep focused on me.” She whispers. I’m very confused, but I just not my head all the same. Her grip on my hand tightens, and she moves closer to me so that her body is pressing up against mine. I’m still shocked by the calming sensation that she brings to me.

“No!” she shrieks. “NO! This cannot be happening. . . . It cannot . . . I refuse to accept it!”

“You didn’t realize this was coming?” says a high girlish voice, sounding callously amused, and I freeze, a student shifts slightly to his right, and I can see that Trelawney’s terrifying vision is nothing other than Professor Umbridge. “Incapable though you are of predicting even tomorrow’s weather, you must surely have realized that your pitiful performance during my inspections, and lack of any improvement, would make it inevitable you would be sacked?”

“You c-can’t!” howls Professor Trelawney, tears streaming down her face from behind her enormous lenses, “you c-can’t sack me! I’ve b-been here sixteen years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home!”

“It was your home,” says Professor Umbridge, and I am revolted to see the enjoyment stretching her toadlike face as she watches Professor Trelawney sink, sobbing uncontrollably, onto one of her trunks, “until an hour ago, when the Minister of Magic countersigned the order for your dismissal. Now kindly remove yourself from this hall. You are embarrassing us.”

I take a shuddering breath, and Ariana squeezes my hand to remind me where exactly I am and what I can and cannot do. I may not like the woman as a teacher but she definitely doesn’t deserve this at all.

But Umbridge stands and watched, with an expression of gloating enjoyment, as Professor Trelawney shudders and moans, rocking backward and forward on her trunk in paroxysms of grief. I hear a sob to my left and look around. Lavender and Parvati are both crying silently, their arms around each other. Then I hear footsteps. Professor McGonagall has broken away from the spectators, marches straight up to Professor Trelawney and is patting her firmly on the back while withdrawing a large handkerchief from within her robes.

“There, there, Sybill . . . Calm down. . . . Blow your nose on this. . . . It’s not as bad as you think, now. . . . You are not going to have to leave Hogwarts . . .”

“Oh really, Professor McGonagall?” says Umbridge in a deadly voice, taking a few steps forward. “And your authority for that statement is . . . ?”

“That would be mine,” says a deep voice. Ariana gasps from beside me.

The oak front doors have swung open. Students beside them scuttle out of the way as Dumbledore appears in the entrance. What he was doing out in the grounds I cannot imagine, but there is something impressive about the sight of him framed in the doorway against an oddly misty night. Leaving the doors wide behind him, he strides forward through the circle of onlookers towards the place where Professor Trelawney sits, tearstained and trembling, upon her trunk, Professor McGonagall alongside her.

“Yours, Professor Dumbledore?” says Umbridge with a singularly unpleasant little laugh. “I’m afraid you do not understand the position. I have here” — she pulls a parchment scroll from within her robes — “an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the Minister of Magic. Under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts has the power to inspect, place upon probation, and sack any teacher she — that is to say, I — feel is not performing up to the standard required by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided that Professor Trelawney is not up to scratch. I have dismissed her.”

To my very great surprise, Dumbledore continues to smile. He looks down at Professor Trelawney, who is still sobbing and choking on her trunk, and says, “You are quite right, of course, Professor Umbridge. As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to send them away from the castle. I am afraid,” he goes on, with a courteous little bow, “that the power to do that still resides with the headmaster, and it is my wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at Hogwarts.”

At this, Professor Trelawney gives a wild little laugh in which a hiccup is barely hidden.

“No — no, I’ll g-go, Dumbledore! I sh-shall l-leave Hogwarts and s-seek my fortune elsewhere —”

“No,” says Dumbledore sharply. “It is my wish that you remain, Sybill.”

He turns to Professor McGonagall.

“Might I ask you to escort Sybill back upstairs, Professor McGonagall?”

“Of course,” says McGonagall. “Up you get, Sybill . . .”

Professor Sprout comes hurrying forward out of the crowd and grabs Professor Trelawney’s other arm. Together they guide her past Umbridge and up the marble stairs. Professor Flitwick goes scurrying after them, his wand held out before him; he squeaks, “Locomotor trunks!” and Professor Trelawney’s luggage rises into the air and proceeds up the staircase after her, Professor Flitwick bringing up the rear.

Professor Umbridge is standing stock-still, staring at Dumbledore, who continues to smile benignly.

Ariana has a faint smile on her face. “Now that my grandfather.” She says with melancholy.

“And what,” she says in a whisper that nevertheless carries all around the entrance hall, “are you going to do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher who needs her lodgings?”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” says Dumbledore pleasantly. “You see, I have already found us a new Divination teacher, and he will prefer lodgings on the ground floor.”

“You’ve found — ?” says Umbridge shrilly. “You’ve found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under Educational Decree Twenty-two —”

“— the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if — and only if — the headmaster is unable to find one,” says Dumbledore. “And I am happy to say that on this occasion I have succeeded. May I introduce you?”

I can’t help but smile now. This is what we need. We need someone fighting back against her, and unfortunately students like me don’t have the power to do so.

He turns to face the open front doors, through which night mist is now drifting.I hear hooves. There is a shocked murmur around the hall and those nearest the doors hastily move even farther backward, some of them tripping over in their haste to clear a path for the newcomer.

Through the mist comes a centaur: white-blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes, the head and torso of a man joined to the palomino body of a horse.

“This is Firenze,” says Dumbledore happily to a thunderstruck Umbridge. “I think you’ll find him suitable.”

I swear that the man catches my eyes and winks. If Umbridge has a problem with me, then she’s positively going to have a cow with him. This looks like it’s going to start looking up around here.


	24. The Centaur and the Sneak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 24- The Centaur and the Sneak

 

“I’ll bet you wish you hadn’t given up Divination now, don’t you, Hermione?” asks Parvati, smirking.

It is breakfast time a few days after the sacking of Professor Trelawney, and Parvati is curling her eyelashes around her wand and examining the effect in the back of her spoon. We are to have our first lesson with Firenze this morning.

“Not really,” says Hermione indifferently, who is reading the Daily Prophet. “I’ve never really liked horses.”

I snort at that, trying to conceal a chuckle. She turns a page of the newspaper, scanning its columns.

“He’s not a horse, he’s a centaur!” says Lavender, sounding shocked.

“What about you Jamie? Isn’t he just the most gorgeous centaur you’ve ever met?” Parvati asks turning to look at me. I don’t know why she suddenly has started to talk to me. The only time we ever speak is for biting comments about the shape of our dorm room. Their side of the room always looks like their trunks have exploded clothes everywhere.

“Um… I dunno he’s the only centaur I’ve ever met he looks— sturdy?” I say but it comes out sounding more like a question. That gets a snicker from Hermione, but honestly I feel a loss at what to say, but by the appalled look that I’m getting from both Lavender and Parvati that obviously wasn’t a correct answer.

I’m hopeless when it comes to these things, its not like I can exactly say that the only person I’ve ever found attractive is a blond haired Hufflepuff in a skirt. If they ever found that out, the whole school would know in less than an hour.

“Either way, he’s still got four legs,” says Hermione coolly. “Anyway, I thought you two were all upset that Trelawney had gone?”

“We are!” Lavender assures her. “We went up to her office to see her, we took her some daffodils — not the honking ones that Sprout’s got, nice ones . . .”

“How is she?” asks Harry butting into the conversation for the first time.

“Not very good, poor thing,” says Lavender sympathetically. “She was crying and saying she’d rather leave the castle forever than stay here if Umbridge is still here, and I don’t blame her. Umbridge was horrible to her, wasn’t she?”

“I’ve got a feeling Umbridge has only just started being horrible,” says Hermione darkly. I hate it when Hermione says things and sounds like that, that usually almost certainly means that they are going to come true.

“Impossible,” says Ron, who is tucking into a large plate of eggs and bacon. “She can’t get any worse than she’s been already.”

“You mark my words, she’s going to want revenge on Dumbledore for appointing a new teacher without consulting her,” says Hermione, closing the newspaper. “Especially another part-human. You saw the look on her face when she saw Firenze . . .”

After breakfast Hermione departs for her Arithmancy class and Harry, Ron, and I follow Parvati and Lavender into the entrance hall, heading for Divination.

“Aren’t we going up to North Tower?” asks Ron, looking puzzled, as Parvati bypasses the marble staircase. I sigh.

Parvati looks scornfully over her shoulder at him.

“How d’you expect Firenze to climb that ladder? We’re in classroom eleven now, it was on the notice board yesterday.”

Classroom eleven is situated in the ground-floor corridor leading off the entrance hall on the opposite side to the Great Hall. I know it to be one of those classrooms that are never used regularly, and that it therefore has the slightly neglected feeling of a cupboard or storeroom. When I enter it right behind Ron and Harry, I find myself right in the middle of a forest clearing, and I am therefore momentarily stunned.

“What the — ?” I gasp.

The classroom floor has become springily mossy and trees are growing out of it; their leafy branches fan across the ceiling and windows, so that the room is full of slanting shafts of soft, dappled, green light. The students who have already arrived are sitting on the earthy floor with their backs resting against tree trunks or boulders, arms wrapped around their knees or folded tightly across their chests, looking rather nervous. In the middle of the room, where there are no trees, stands Firenze.

“Harry Potter,” he says, holding out a hand when Harry enters.

“Er — hi,” says Harry, shaking hands with the centaur, who surveys him unblinkingly through those astonishingly blue eyes but did not smile. “Er — good to see you . . .”

I know that Harry met this centaur on one of his trips into the forest with Hagrid, and he had said that Firenze wasn’t a bad guy, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. I already love his classroom.

“And you,” says the centaur, inclining his white-blond head. “It was foretold that we would meet again.”

I notice that there is the shadow of a hoof-shaped bruise on Firenze’s chest. As I turn to join the rest of the class upon the floor, I see that they were all looking at Harry with awe, apparently deeply impressed that he is on speaking terms with Firenze, whom they seem to find intimidating.

When the door is closed and the last student has sat down upon a tree stump beside the wastepaper basket, Firenze gestures around the room.

“Professor Dumbledore has kindly arranged this classroom for us,” says Firenze, when everyone has settled down, “in imitation of my natural habitat. I would have preferred to teach you in the Forbidden Forest, which was — until Monday — my home . . . but this is not possible.”

“Please — er — sir —” says Parvati breathlessly, raising her hand, “why not? We’ve been in there with Hagrid, we’re not frightened!”

“It is not a question of your bravery,” says Firenze, “but of my position. I can no longer return to the forest. My herd has banished me.”

“Herd?” says Lavender in a confused voice, and I know she is thinking of cows. “What — oh!” Comprehension dawns on her face. “There are more of you?” she says, stunned.

“Did Hagrid breed you, like the thestrals?” asks Dean eagerly. Oh that is not the right thing to say. I wince and shrink ever so slightly back into Harry.

“He’s done it now.” I whisper, and Harry nods his agreement.

Firenze turns his head very slowly to face Dean, who seems to realize at once that he has said something very offensive.

“I didn’t — I meant — sorry,” he finishes in a hushed voice.

“Centaurs are not the servants or playthings of humans,” says Firenze quietly. There is a pause, then Parvati raises her hand again.

“Please, sir . . . why have the other centaurs banished you?”

“Because I have agreed to work for Professor Dumbledore,” says Firenze. “They see this as a betrayal of our kind.”

“Let us begin,” says Firenze. He swishes his long palomino tail, raises his hand towards the leafy canopy overhead then lowers it slowly, and as he does so, the light in the room dims, so that we now seem to be sitting in a forest clearing by twilight, and stars emerge upon the ceiling. There are oohs and gasps, and Ron says audibly, “Blimey!”

Now this is one of the coolest classes I’ve been in in a long time.

“Lie back upon the floor,” says Firenze in his calm voice, “and observe the heavens. Here is written, for those who can see, the fortune of our races.”

I stretch out on my back and gaze upwards at the ceiling. A twinkling red star winks at me from overhead.

“I know that you have learned the names of the planets and their moons in Astronomy,” says Firenze’s calm voice, “and that you have mapped the stars’ progress through the heavens. Centaurs have unraveled the mysteries of these movements over centuries. Our findings teach us that the future may be glimpsed in the sky above us . . .”

“Professor Trelawney did Astrology with us!” says Parvati excitedly, raising her hand in front of her so that it stuck up in the air as she lay on her back. “Mars causes accidents and burns and things like that, and when it makes an angle to Saturn, like now” — she draws a right angle in the air above her — “that means that people need to be extra careful when handling hot things —”

“That,” says Firenze calmly, “is human nonsense.”

Parvati’s hand falls limply to her side, and I stile a giggle. I love this guy.

“Trivial hurts, tiny human accidents,” says Firenze, as his hooves thud over the mossy floor. “These are of no more significance than the scurryings of ants to the wide universe, and are unaffected by planetary movements.”

“Professor Trelawney —” begins Parvati, in a hurt and indignant voice.

“— is a human,” says Firenze simply. “And is therefore blinkered and fettered by the limitations of your kind.”

I turn my head very slightly to look at Parvati. She looks very offended, as do several of the people surrounding her.

“Sybill Trelawney may have Seen, I do not know,” continues Firenze, and I hear the swishing of his tail again as he walks up and down before us, “but she wastes her time, in the main, on the self-flattering nonsense humans call fortune-telling. I, however, am here to explain the wisdom of centaurs, which is impersonal and impartial. We watch the skies for the great tides of evil or change that are sometimes marked there. It may take ten years to be sure of what we are seeing.”

Firenze points to the red star directly above Harry and me.

“In the past decade, the indications have been that Wizard-kind is living through nothing more than a brief calm between two wars. Mars, bringer of battle, shines brightly above us, suggesting that the fight must break out again soon. How soon, centaurs may attempt to divine by the burning of certain herbs and leaves, by the observation of fume and flame . . .”

It is the most unusual lesson I have ever attended. We do indeed burn sage and mallowsweet there on the classroom floor, and Firenze tells us to look for certain shapes and symbols in the pungent fumes, but he seems perfectly unconcerned that not one of us can see any of the signs he described, telling us that humans are hardly ever good at this, that it takes centaurs years and years to become competent, and finishes by telling us that it is foolish to put too much faith in such things anyway, because even centaurs sometimes read them wrongly. He is nothing like any human teacher I have ever had. His priority does not seem to be to teach them what he knows, but rather to impress upon us that nothing, not even centaurs’ knowledge, is foolproof. I like him even more.

“He’s not very definite on anything, is he?” says Ron in a low voice, as we put out our mallowsweet fire. “I mean, I could do with a few more details about this war we’re about to have, couldn’t you?”

I nod my head vaguely, still deep in thought. “But is anything ever predetermined to the fullest extent? Yes certain events may come about happening but the way in which we get there is never set in stone.” I say.

“Very wise observation.” Firenze’s voice floats over me, and I startle slightly seeing that he is standing behind the three of us. “What is your name young one?” He questions softly.

“Jamie… Jamie Pendragon.” I say hesitantly. A flash of something runs across the centaur’s face but soon it is gone, and smoothed away like the recognition was never there.

“Keep up the good work Jamie Pendragon.” He tells me, and I smile faintly in response. Its not that I don’t like the guy, it’s more like I just don’t understand him.

The bell rings right outside the classroom door and everyone jumps; I had completely forgotten that we are still inside the castle, quite convinced that I am really in the forest. The class files out, looking slightly perplexed; Harry, Ron, and I are on the point of following them when Firenze calls, “Harry Potter, a word, please.”

Harry turns. The centaur advances a little towards him. Ron and I hesitate.

“You may stay,” Firenze tells us. “But close the door, please.”

Ron hastens to obey.

“Harry Potter, you are a friend of Hagrid’s, are you not?” says the centaur.

“Yes,” says Harry.

“Then give him a warning from me. His attempt is not working. He would do better to abandon it.”

“His attempt is not working?” Harry repeats blankly.

“What attempt?” I ask.

“And he would do better to abandon it,” says Firenze, nodding ignoring my question. “I would warn Hagrid myself, but I am banished — it would be unwise for me to go too near the forest now — Hagrid has troubles enough, without a centaurs’ battle.”

“But — what’s Hagrid attempting to do?” says Harry nervously.

Firenze looks at Harry impassively.

“Hagrid has recently rendered me a great service,” says Firenze, “and he has long since earned my respect for the care he shows all living creatures. I shall not betray his secret. But he must be brought to his senses. The attempt is not working. Tell him, Harry Potter. Good day to you.” 

* * *

As a dull March blurs into a squally April, my life seems to have become one long series of worries and problems again.

Umbridge continues attending all Care of Magical Creatures lessons, so it has been very difficult to deliver Firenze’s warning to Hagrid. At last Harry and I manage it by pretending he lost his copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and doubling back after class one day. When he passes on Firenze’s message, Hagrid gazes at him for a moment through his puffy, blackened eyes, apparently taken aback. Then he seems to pull himself together.

“Nice bloke, Firenze,” he says gruffly, “but he don’ know what he’s talkin’ abou’ on this. The attemp’s comin’ on fine.”

“Hagrid, what’re you up to?” asks Harry seriously. “Because you’ve got to be careful, Umbridge has already sacked Trelawney and if you ask me, she’s on a roll. If you’re doing anything you shouldn’t be —”

“There’s things more importan’ than keepin’ a job,” says Hagrid, though his hands shake slightly as he says this and a basin full of knarl droppings crashes to the floor.   “Hagrid…” I say worriedly.

“Don’ worry abou’ me, Harry, Jamie, jus’ get along now, there’s a good lad ‘n lass . . .”

Harry and I have no choice but to leave Hagrid mopping up the dung all over his floor, but we feel thoroughly dispirited as we trudge back up to the castle.

Meanwhile, as the teachers and Hermione persist in reminding us, the O.W.L.s are drawing ever nearer. All the fifth years are suffering from stress to some degree, but Hannah Abbott becomes the first to receive a Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey after she bursts into tears during Herbology and sobs that she is too stupid to take exams and wants to leave school now.

Ariana had her hands full trying to comfort her friend until they could get her up to the Matron that day.

If it was not for the D.A. lessons, I thought I would have been extremely unhappy. I sometimes feel that I am living for the hours we spend in the Room of Requirement, working hard but thoroughly enjoying ourselves at the same time, Harry swelling with pride as he looks around at his fellow D.A. members and sees how far we have come. Indeed, I sometimes wonder how Umbridge is going to react when all the members of the D.A. receive “Outstanding” in their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s.

They have finally started work on Patronuses, which everybody has been very keen to practice, though as Harry keep reminding us, producing a Patronus in the middle of a brightly lit classroom when we are not under threat is very different to producing it when confronted by something like a dementor.

I was watching my brother smile with joy as a silvery shaped owl soars around the classroom above our heads. Ariana chuckles at the form of his patronus.

“Well Pendragon lets see what you’ve got. Think you can match your brother?” Ariana asks me cockily, with her hands on her hips. I roll my eyes at her and ready my wand.

“All right then, but as soon as mine’s out then you have to show me yours as well.” I grin. I make the complicated hand movement and mutter the spell, “Expecto Patronum.”

A silvery blue light emerges from the tip of my wand and starts growing into a large form. I hold my breath and a few seconds later, I’m staring at a fully grown lioness, who curls herself around me, and I can just imagine that she would be purring. Ariana’s eyes widen at my patronus.

“A lioness, you truly are a Gryffindor through and through.” Ariana says with a bright smile on her face.

“Brilliant Jamie.” Harry says as he walks by, eyeing my large cat that twines around his legs as well, before he leaves.

“Okay now you Dumbledore, don’t leave me hanging here.” I say with an excited smile. I’m insanely proud that the corporal form of my patronus is something as strong as a lioness. Ariana smirks at me before casting hers. A silvery shape forms quickly in front of her, and soon a majestic wolf separates the two of us. I grin widely at that sight.

“She’s beautiful Ariana.” I whisper. She blushes prettily and glances back at mine.

“So is she.” She returns. We’re caught off guard momentarily by conversation from other people.

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy,” says Cho brightly, watching her silvery swan-shaped Patronus soar around the Room of Requirement during our last lesson before Easter. “They’re so pretty!”

“They’re not supposed to be pretty, they’re supposed to protect you,” says Harry patiently. “What we really need is a boggart or something; that’s how I learned, I had to conjure a Patronus while the boggart was pretending to be a dementor —”

“But that would be really scary!” says Lavender, who is shooting puffs of silver vapor out of the end of her wand. “And I still — can’t — do it!” she adds angrily.

Neville is having trouble too. His face is screwed up in concentration, but only feeble wisps of silver smoke issue from his wand-tip.

“You’ve got to think of something happy,” Harry reminds him.

“I’m trying,” says Neville miserably, who is trying so hard his round face is actually shining with sweat.

“Harry, I think I’m doing it!” yells Seamus, who has been brought along to his first ever D.A. meeting by Dean. “Look — ah — it’s gone. . . . But it was definitely something hairy, Harry!”

Hermione’s Patronus, a shining silver otter, is gamboling around her. “They are sort of nice, aren’t they?” she says, looking at it fondly. I grin nodding my head while looking down at my patronus only to find it gone. I’m about to try again when I hear Ariana giggle. I look over at her to see where her attention is at.

Our two patronus’ are meandering about very close together, almost in an intimate sort of way. I watch in fascination as my lioness’ tail curls around the tail of Ariana’s wolf. My face flushes with heat. I guess that even our patronus’ can tell that we like each other. Ari comes closer to me.

“I think its quite sweet don’t you think?” She questions. I nod my head not trusting my voice to work at the moment.

Before I can say anything back that wouldn’t sound stupid I lose the chance.

The door of the Room of Requirement opens and then closes again; I look around to see who entered, but there does not seem to be anybody there. It is a few moments before I realized that the people close to the door have fallen silent. Next thing I see is something tugging at Harry’s robes somewhere near the knee. He looks down and sees, Dobby the house-elf peering up at him from beneath his usual eight hats.

“Hi, Dobby!” Harry says. “What are you — what’s wrong?”

For the elf’s eyes are wide with terror and he is shaking. The members of the D.A. closest to Harry have fallen silent now: Everybody in the room is watching Dobby. The few Patronuses people have managed to conjure fade away into silver mist, leaving the room looking much darker than before.

Whatever this is it can’t be good, and my happiness from just moments ago starts fading away like the mist.

“Harry Potter, sir . . .” squeaks the elf, trembling from head to foot, “Harry Potter, sir . . . Dobby has come to warn you . . . but the house-elves have been warned not to tell . . .”

He runs headfirst at the wall: Harry, who has some experience of Dobby’s habits of self-punishment, makes to seize him, but Dobby merely bounces off the stone, cushioned by his eight hats. Hermione and a few of the other girls let out squeaks of fear and sympathy.

“What’s happened, Dobby?” Harry asks, grabbing the elf’s tiny arm and holding him away from anything with which he might seek to hurt himself.

“Harry Potter . . . she . . . she . . .”

Dobby hits himself hard on the nose with his free fist: Harry seizes that too.

“Who’s ‘she,’ Dobby?”

Dread begins to grow in my gut. Umbridge. He means Umbridge.

“Umbridge?” asks Harry, horrified.

Dobby nods, then tries to bang his head off Harry’s knees; Harry holds him at bay.

“What about her? Dobby — she hasn’t found out about this — about us — about the D.A.?”

He reads the answer in the elf’s stricken face. His hands hold fast by Harry, the elf tries to kick himself and sinks to his knees.

“Is she coming?” Harry asks quietly.

Dobby lets out a howl. “Yes, Harry Potter, yes!”

Harry straightens up and looks around at the motionless, terrified people gazing at the thrashing elf.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” Harry bellows. “RUN!”

We all pelt towards the exit at once, forming a scrum at the door, then people burst through; I can hear them sprinting along the corridors and hope they have the sense not to try and make it all the way to their dormitories. It is only ten to nine, if they just take refuge in the library or the Owlery, which are both nearer —

“Harry, come on!” shrieks Hermione from the center of the knot of people now fighting to get out.

He scoops up Dobby, who is still attempting to do himself serious injury, and runs with the elf in his arms to join the back of the queue.

“Dobby — this is an order — get back down to the kitchen with the other elves, and if she asks you whether you warned me, lie and say no!” says Harry. “And I forbid you to hurt yourself!” he adds, dropping the elf as he makes it over the threshold at last and slamming the door behind him.

“Thank you, Harry Potter!” squeaks Dobby, and he streaks off.

“Come on Jamie!” Ariana cries grabbing my hand and pulling me along faster to make it to the girls room.

We make it to the corner before I hear Harry cry out. They’ve got him. I take one look at the girl in front of me and push her into the bathroom after the others. “I’m sorry.” I say, closing the door forcefully behind me. I make my way back around the corner to Harry.

He sacrifices everything for us all the time. Its about time that someone sacrificed for him as well. I see him on the ground with Malfoy hovering over him happily, before I’m bodily slammed into the wall face first. I hear a sickening crunch, and feel hot wet blood pour down my face.

“Not so strong now are you Pendragon?” The grating simpering voice of Pansy Parkinson hisses against my ear. I groan in pain and in anger that I hadn’t seen her there.

“I’ve got another Professor!” Parkinson calls out and I move my face just enough to see Umbridge smiling evilly at Harry and when she sees me, the smile grows vicious and triples in size.

“Good give her over here.” She demands. I’m shoved over to Harry, and he catches me before I can fall. He worriedly looks over my bloody and broken face.

“You didn’t have to tackle her!” He growls outraged at my treatment for me.

“Good work Miss Parkinson. Another fifty points for Slytherin is in order I believe.” Umbridge says happily. She turns her glare on the two of us next.

She seizes both Harry’s and my arm in an iron grip and turns, beaming broadly, to Malfoy. “You hop along and see if you can round up anymore of them, Draco,” she says. “Tell the others to look in the library — anybody out of breath — check the bathrooms, Miss Parkinson can do the girls’ ones — off you go — and you two,” she adds in her softest, most dangerous voice, as Malfoy walks away. “You can come with me to the headmaster’s office.”

We are at the stone gargoyle within minutes. It’s a struggle for me to breathe through my mouth and not my broken and still profusely bleeding nose, good thing is that it keeps me distracted from my anger. I wonder how many of the others have been caught. I thought of Ron — Molly would kill him — oh crap, she’s going to flay me alive— and of how Hermione will feel if she is expelled before she can take her O.W.L.s. And it was Seamus’s very first meeting . . . and Neville was getting so good. . . .

Ariana is never going to forgive me for shoving her into safety without me following behind her. I just hope she doesn’t get caught, or any of my other siblings.

“Fizzing Whizbee,” sings Umbridge, and the stone gargoyle jumps aside, the wall behind split open, and we ascended the moving stone staircase. We reach the polished door with the griffin knocker, but Umbridge does not bother to knock, she strides straight inside, still holding tight to Harry and me.

The office is full of people. Dumbledore is sitting behind his desk, his expression serene, the tips of his long fingers together. Professor McGonagall stands rigidly beside him, her face extremely tense and her eyes grow darker at seeing my bloodied face. Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, is rocking backwards and forwards on his toes beside the fire, apparently immensely pleased with the situation. Kingsley and a tough-looking wizard I do not recognize with very short, wiry hair are positioned on either side of the door like guards, and the freckled, bespectacled form of Percy Weasley hovers excitedly beside the wall, a quill and a heavy scroll of parchment in his hands, apparently poised to take notes.

Kingsley’s face grows grave with anger as he takes in my battered form. McGonagall it seems cannot stand idly by any longer for she crosses over to us, and produces a handkerchief for my nose. I greatly use it to try and gently stop the blood flow, and she moves back to her previous position.

The portraits of old headmasters and mistresses are not shamming sleep tonight. All of them are watching what is happening below, alert and serious.

Harry and I pull ourselves free of Umbridge’s grasp as the door swings shut behind us finally. Cornelius Fudge is glaring at Harry with a kind of vicious satisfaction upon his face.

“Well,” he says. “Well, well, well . . .”

Harry replies with the dirtiest look he can muster. I choose to stay quiet and focus on the throbbing of my nose.

“He was heading back to Gryffindor Tower,” says Umbridge. There is an indecent excitement in her voice, the same callous pleasure I heard as she watched Professor Trelawney dissolving with misery in the entrance hall. “The Malfoy boy cornered him. She came back to help him.” Another dirty look at me.

“Did he, did he?” said Fudge appreciatively. “I must remember to tell Lucius. Well, Potter, Pendragon . . . I expect you know why you are here?”

Harry looks like he’s about to say yes, but we both catch the smallest of head shakes from Dumbledore.

Harry changes direction mid-word.

“Yeh — no.”

“I beg your pardon?” says Fudge.

“No,” says Harry, firmly.

“You don’t know why you are here?”

“No, I don’t,” says Harry. I nod my head along with him.

Fudge looks incredulously from Harry to Professor Umbridge.

“So you have no idea,” says Fudge in a voice positively sagging with sarcasm, “why Professor Umbridge has brought you to this office? You are not aware that you have broken any school rules?”

“School rules?” says Harry. “No.”

“I was only going to the bathroom Minister.” I say finally through a blood soaked handkerchief.

“Or Ministry decrees?” amends Fudge angrily.

“Not that I’m aware of,” says Harry blandly.

“I know almost all Ministry decrees Minister.” I say playing dumb.

“So it’s news to you two, is it,” says Fudge, his voice now thick with anger, “that an illegal student organization has been discovered within this school?”

“Yes, it is,” says Harry, hoisting an unconvincing look of innocent surprise onto his face.

“I would like to say that I was slammed face first into a wall unprovoked.” I add bitterly with my words sounding slightly off do to my injury.

“I think, Minister,” says Umbridge silkily from beside him, “we might make better progress if I fetch our informant.”

“Yes, yes, do,” says Fudge, nodding, and he glances maliciously at Dumbledore as Umbridge leaves the room. “There’s nothing like a good witness, is there, Dumbledore?”

“Nothing at all, Cornelius,” says Dumbledore gravely, inclining his head.

There is a wait of several minutes, in which nobody looks at each other, then I heard the door open behind me. Umbridge moves past us into the room, gripping by the shoulder Cho’s curly-haired friend Marietta, who is hiding her face in her hands.

“Don’t be scared, dear, don’t be frightened,” says Professor Umbridge softly, patting her on the back, “it’s quite all right, now. You have done the right thing. The Minister is very pleased with you. He’ll be telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been. Marietta’s mother, Minister,” she adds, looking up at Fudge, “is Madam Edgecombe from the Department of Magical Transportation. Floo Network office — she’s been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know.”

“Jolly good, jolly good!” says Fudge heartily. “Like mother, like daughter, eh? Well, come on, now, dear, look up, don’t be shy, let’s hear what you’ve got to — galloping gargoyles!”

If I wasn’t in so much pain and this weren’t such a grave situation I would have laughed.

As Marietta raises her head, Fudge leaps backwards in shock, nearly landing himself in the fire. He curses and stamps on the hem of his cloak, which started to smoke, and Marietta gives a wail and pulls the neck of her robes right up to her eyes, but not before the whole room has seen that her face is horribly disfigured by a series of close-set purple pustules that have spread across her nose and cheeks to form the word “SNEAK.” I seriously love Hermione sometimes.

“Never mind the spots now, dear,” says Umbridge impatiently, “just take your robes away from your mouth and tell the Minister —”

But Marietta gives another muffled wail and shakes her head frantically. I wouldn’t want to show my face either if I was her, and I’m likely going to be slaughtered by Molly when she hears what I’ve done, well actually all her children have done. I hope she doesn’t find out about them though.

“Oh, very well, you silly girl, I’ll tell him,” snaps Umbridge. She hitches her sickly smile back onto her face and says, “Well, Minister, Miss Edgecombe here came to my office shortly after dinner this evening and told me she had something she wanted to tell me. She said that if I proceeded to a secret room on the seventh floor, sometimes known as the Room of Requirement, I would find out something to my advantage. I questioned her a little further and she admitted that there was to be some kind of meeting there. Unfortunately at that point this hex,” she waves impatiently at Marietta’s concealed face, “came into operation and upon catching sight of her face in my mirror the girl became too distressed to tell me any more.”

“Well, now,” says Fudge, fixing Marietta with what he evidently imagines is a kind and fatherly look. “It is very brave of you, my dear, coming to tell Professor Umbridge, you did exactly the right thing. Now, will you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was its purpose? Who was there?”

But Marietta will not speak. She merely shakes her head again, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Haven’t we got a counterjinx for this?” Fudge asks Umbridge impatiently, gesturing at Marietta’s face. “So she can speak freely?”

“I have not yet managed to find one,” Umbridge admits grudgingly, and I feel a surge of pride in Hermione’s jinxing ability. “But it doesn’t matter if she won’t speak, I can take up the story from here.”

“You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report back in October that Potter had met a number of fellow students in the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade —”

“And what is your evidence for that?” cuts in Professor McGonagall.

“I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva, who happened to be in the bar at the time. He was heavily bandaged, it is true, but his hearing was quite unimpaired,” says Umbridge smugly. “He heard every word Potter said and hastened straight to the school to report to me —”

“Oh, so that’s why he wasn’t prosecuted for setting up all those regurgitating toilets!” says Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. “What an interesting insight into our justice system!”

“Blatant corruption!” roars the portrait of the corpulent, red-nosed wizard on the wall behind Dumbledore’s desk. “The Ministry did not cut deals with petty criminals in my day, no sir, they did not!”

“Thank you, Fortescue, that will do,” says Dumbledore softly.

“The purpose of Potter’s meeting with these students,” continues Professor Umbridge, “was to persuade them to join an illegal society, whose aim was to learn spells and curses the Ministry has decided are inappropriate for school-age —”

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong there, Dolores,” says Dumbledore quietly, peering at her over the half-moon spectacles perched halfway down his crooked nose.

I honestly have no clue how Dumbledore is going to get us out of this now.

“Oho!” says Fudge, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet again. “Yes, do let’s hear the latest cock-and-bull story designed to pull Potter out of trouble! Go on, then, Dumbledore, go on — Willy Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day? Or is there the usual simple explanation involving a reversal of time, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of invisible dementors?”

Percy Weasley lets out a hearty laugh.

“Oh, very good, Minister, very good!”

I could have kicked him. Then I see, to my astonishment, that Dumbledore is smiling gently too.

“Cornelius, I do not deny — and nor, I am sure, does Harry — that he was in the Hog’s Head that day, nor that he was trying to recruit students to a Defense Against the Dark Arts group. I am merely pointing out that Dolores is quite wrong to suggest that such a group was, at that time, illegal. If you remember, the Ministry decree banning all student societies was not put into effect until two days after Harry’s Hogsmeade meeting, so he was not breaking any rules in the Hog’s Head at all.”

Percy looks as though he has been struck in the face by something very heavy. I smile behind the handkerchief at that. Fudge remains motionless in mid-bounce, his mouth hanging open.

Umbridge recovers first.

“That’s all very fine, Headmaster,” she says, smiling sweetly. “But we are now nearly six months on from the introduction of Educational Decree Number Twenty-four. If the first meeting was not illegal, all those that have happened since most certainly are.”

“Well,” says Dumbledore, surveying her with polite interest over the top of his interlocked fingers, “they certainly would be, if they had continued after the decree came into effect. Do you have any evidence that these meetings continued?”

As Dumbledore speaks, I hear a rustle behind him and think Kingsley whispers something. I could swear too that I feel something brush against my side, a gentle something like a draft or bird wings, but looking down I see nothing there.

“Evidence?” repeats Umbridge with that horrible wide toadlike smile. “Have you not been listening, Dumbledore? Why do you think Miss Edgecombe is here?”

“Oh, can she tell us about six months’ worth of meetings?” says Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows. “I was under the impression that she was merely reporting a meeting tonight.”

“Miss Edgecombe,” says Umbridge at once, “tell us how long these meetings have been going on, dear. You can simply nod or shake your head, I’m sure that won’t make the spots worse. Have they been happening regularly over the last six months?”

I feel a horrible plummeting in my stomach. This is it, we have hit a dead end of solid evidence that not even Dumbledore will be able to shift aside. . . .

“Just nod or shake your head, dear,” Umbridge says coaxingly to Marietta. “Come on, now, that won’t activate the jinx further . . .”

Everyone in the room is gazing at the top of Marietta’s face. Only her eyes are visible between the pulled up robes and her curly fringe. Perhaps it is a trick of the firelight, but her eyes look oddly blank. And then — to my utter amazement — Marietta shakes her head.

Umbridge looks quickly at Fudge and then back at Marietta.

“I don’t think you understood the question, did you, dear? I’m asking whether you’ve been going to these meetings for the past six months? You have, haven’t you?”

Again, Marietta shakes her head.

“What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?” says Umbridge in a testy voice.

“I would have thought her meaning was quite clear,” says Professor McGonagall harshly. “There have been no secret meetings for the past six months. Is that correct, Miss Edgecombe?”

Marietta nods.

“But there was a meeting tonight!” says Umbridge furiously. “There was a meeting, Miss Edgecombe, you told me about it, in the Room of Requirement! And Potter was the leader, was he not, Potter organized it, Potter — why are you shaking your head, girl?”

“Well, usually when a person shakes their head,” says McGonagall coldly, “they mean ‘no.’ So unless Miss Edgecombe is using a form of sign language as yet unknown to humans —”

I seriously love Professor McGonagall right now.

Professor Umbridge seizes Marietta, pulls her around to face her, and begins shaking her very hard. A split second later Dumbledore is on his feet, his wand raised. Kingsley starts forward and Umbridge leaps back from Marietta, waving her hands in the air as though they have been burned.

“I cannot allow you to manhandle my students, Dolores,” says Dumbledore, and for the first time, he looks angry. “You did so once already with Miss Pendragon, and you were warned then.”

“You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge,” says Kingsley in his deep, slow voice, but its hardened. “You don’t want to get yourself into trouble now.”

“No,” says Umbridge breathlessly, glancing up at the towering figure of Kingsley. “I mean, yes — you’re right, Shacklebolt — I — I forgot myself.”

Marietta is standing exactly where Umbridge released her. She seems neither perturbed by Umbridge’s sudden attack, nor relieved by her release. She is still clutching her robe up to her oddly blank eyes, staring straight ahead of her. A sudden suspicion connected to Kingsley’s whisper and the thing I felt shoots past me springing into my mind.

“Dolores,” says Fudge, with the air of trying to settle something once and for all, “the meeting tonight — the one we know definitely happened —”

“Yes,” says Umbridge, pulling herself together, “yes . . . well, Miss Edgecombe tipped me off and I proceeded at once to the seventh floor, accompanied by certain trustworthy students, so as to catch those in the meeting red-handed. It appears that they were forewarned of my arrival, however, because when we reached the seventh floor they were running in every direction. It does not matter, however. I have all their names here, Miss Parkinson ran into the Room of Requirement for me to see if they had left anything behind. . . . We needed evidence and the room provided . . .”

And to my horror, she withdraws from her pocket the list of names that had been pinned upon the Room of Requirement’s wall and hands it to Fudge. We’re all screwed now.

“The moment I saw Potter’s name on the list, I knew what we were dealing with,” she says softly.

“Excellent,” says Fudge, a smile spreading across his face. “Excellent, Dolores. And . . . by thunder . . .”

He looks up at Dumbledore, who is still standing beside Marietta, his wand held loosely in his hand.

“See what they’ve named themselves?” says Fudge quietly. “Dumbledore’s Army.”

Dumbledore reaches out and takes the piece of parchment from Fudge. He gazes at the heading scribbled by Hermione months before and for a moment seems unable to speak. Then he looks up, smiling.

“Well, the game is up,” he says simply. “Would you like a written confession from me, Cornelius — or will a statement before these witnesses suffice?”

I see McGonagall and Kingsley look at each other. There is fear in both faces. I do not understand what is going on, and neither, apparently, does Fudge. I look at Harry and he looks as confused as I do.

“Statement?” says Fudge slowly. “What — I don’t — ?”

“Dumbledore’s Army, Cornelius,” says Dumbledore, still smiling as he waves the list of names before Fudge’s face. “Not Potter’s Army. Dumbledore’s Army.”

“But — but —”

Understanding blazes suddenly in Fudge’s face. He takes a horrified step backwards, yelps, and jumps out of the fire again. Merlin help us if this man is to be our leader for much longer.

“You?” he whispers, stamping again on his smoldering cloak.

“That’s right,” says Dumbledore pleasantly.

“You organized this?”

“I did,” says Dumbledore.

“You recruited these students for — for your army?”

“Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting,” says Dumbledore, nodding. “Merely to see whether they would be interested in joining me. I see now that it was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe, of course.”

Marietta nods. Fudge looks from her to Dumbledore, his chest swelling.

“Then you have been plotting against me!” he yells.

“That’s right,” says Dumbledore cheerfully.

“NO!” shouts Harry.

“Professor!” I beg.

Kingsley flashes a look of warning at us, McGonagall widenes her eyes threateningly, but it has suddenly dawned upon Harry and me what Dumbledore is about to do, and we cannot let it happen.

“No — Professor Dumbledore!” Harry cries.

“Its not right!” I shout.

“Be quiet, Harry, Jamie, or I am afraid you will have to leave my office,” says Dumbledore calmly.

“Yes, shut up, Potter!” barks Fudge, who is still ogling Dumbledore with a kind of horrified delight. “Well, well, well — I came here tonight expecting to expel Potter and instead —”

“Instead you get to arrest me,” says Dumbledore, smiling. “It’s like losing a Knut and finding a Galleon, isn’t it?”

“Weasley!” cries Fudge, now positively quivering with delight, “Weasley, have you written it all down, everything he’s said, his confession, have you got it?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir!” says Percy eagerly, whose nose is splattered with ink from the speed of his note-taking.

“Molly would be so ashamed of you.” I say directing my ire to the pathetic excuse of a man.

“My mother is nothing more than an idealist who is brainwashed by this man, and don’t you dare talk about her!” Percy snaps at me. I glare at him back.

“She’s my mother too now, and you would have known that if you weren’t such a part to be ignoring her!” I growl back, and Harry puts his hand on my arm to clam me down. Percy’s face is shocked for a moment before he schools it back into a professional mask.

“The bit about how he’s been trying to build up an army against the Ministry, how he’s been working to destabilize me?” Fudge interrupts our brief spat.

“Yes, sir, I’ve got it, yes!” says Percy, returning to scanning his notes joyfully. I can’t believe that I’m related to him now.

“Very well, then,” says Fudge, now radiant with glee. “Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to the Daily Prophet at once. If we send a fast owl we should make the morning edition!” Percy dashes from the room, slamming the door behind him, and Fudge turns back to Dumbledore. “You will now be escorted back to the Ministry, where you will be formally charged and then sent to Azkaban to await trial!”

“Ah,” says Dumbledore gently, “yes. Yes, I thought we might hit that little snag.”

“Snag?” says Fudge, his voice still vibrating with joy. “I see no snag, Dumbledore!”

“Well,” says Dumbledore apologetically, “I’m afraid I do.”

“Oh really?”

“Well — it’s just that you seem to be laboring under the delusion that I am going to — what is the phrase? ‘Come quietly.’ I am afraid I am not going to come quietly at all, Cornelius. I have absolutely no intention of being sent to Azkaban. I could break out, of course — but what a waste of time, and frankly, I can think of a whole host of things I would rather be doing.”

Umbridge’s face is growing steadily redder, she looks as though she is being filled with boiling water. Fudge stares at Dumbledore with a very silly expression on his face, as though he has just been stunned by a sudden blow and cannot quite believe it happened. He makes a small choking noise and then looks around at Kingsley and the man with short gray hair, who alone of everyone in the room remained entirely silent so far. The latter gives Fudge a reassuring nod and moves forward a little, away from the wall. I see his hand drift, almost casually, towards his pocket.

“Don’t be silly, Dawlish,” says Dumbledore kindly. “I’m sure you are an excellent Auror, I seem to remember that you achieved ‘Outstanding’ in all your N.E.W.T.s, but if you attempt to — er — ‘bring me in’ by force, I will have to hurt you.”

The man called Dawlish blinks, looking rather foolish. He looks towards Fudge again, but this time seems to be hoping for a clue as to what to do next.

“So,” sneers Fudge, recovering himself, “you intend to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?”

“Merlin’s beard, no,” says Dumbledore, smiling. “Not unless you are foolish enough to force me to.”

“He will not be single-handed!” says Professor McGonagall loudly, plunging her hand inside her robes.

“Oh yes he will, Minerva!” says Dumbledore sharply. “Hogwarts needs you!”

“Enough of this rubbish!” says Fudge, pulling out his own wand. “Dawlish! Shacklebolt! Take him!”

A streak of silver light flashes around the room. There is a bang like a gunshot, and the floor trembles. A hand grabs the scruff of my neck and forces me down on the floor as a second silver flash goes off — several of the portraits yell, Fawkes screeches, and a cloud of dust fills the air. Coughing in the dust, I see a dark figure fall to the ground with a crash in front of me. There was a shriek and a thud and somebody cries, “No!” Then the sound of breaking glass, frantically scuffling footsteps, a groan — and silence.

I struggle around to see who is half-strangling me and see Professor McGonagall crouched beside Harry and me. She forced both him and Marietta out of harm’s way along with me. Dust is still floating gently down through the air onto us. Panting slightly, I see a very tall figure moving towards us.

“Are you all right?” says Dumbledore.

“Yes!” says Professor McGonagall, getting up and dragging Harry, Marietta, and me with her.

The dust is clearing. The wreckage of the office looms into view: Dumbledore’s desk has been overturned, all of the spindly tables have been knocked to the floor, their silver instruments in pieces. Fudge, Umbridge, Kingsley, and Dawlish lay motionless on the floor. Fawkes the phoenix soars in wide circles above them, singing softly.

“Unfortunately, I had to hex Kingsley too, or it would have looked very suspicious,” says Dumbledore in a low voice. “He was remarkably quick on the uptake, modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that while everyone was looking the other way — thank him for me, won’t you, Minerva?

“Now, they will all awake very soon and it will be best if they do not know that we had time to communicate — you must act as though no time has passed, as though they were merely knocked to the ground, they will not remember —”

“Where will you go, Dumbledore?” whispers Professor McGonagall. “Grimmauld Place?”

“Oh no,” says Dumbledore with a grim smile. “I am not leaving to go into hiding. Fudge will soon wish he’d never dislodged me from Hogwarts, I promise you . . .”

“Professor Dumbledore . . .” Harry begins. But Dumbledore cuts him off before he can say another word.

“Listen to me, Harry,” he says urgently, “you must study Occlumency as hard as you can, do you understand me? Do everything Professor Snape tells you and practice it particularly every night before sleeping so that you can close your mind to bad dreams — you will understand why soon enough, but you must promise me —”

The man called Dawlish is stirring. Dumbledore seizes Harry’s wrist.

“Remember — close your mind —”

Dumbledore says something softly to him that I can’t hear before turning to look at me. “Look after my granddaughter for me. She will understand when the time comes.”

I nod my head in response to that. Of course I would look after Ariana, I did so earlier tonight and I will continue doing so.

Fawkes circles the office and swoops low over him. Dumbledore releases Harry, raises his hand, and grasps the phoenix’s long golden tail. There is a flash of fire and the pair of them have gone.

“Where is he?” yells Fudge, pushing himself up from the ground. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” shouts Kingsley, also leaping to his feet.

“Well, he can’t have Disapparated!” cries Umbridge. “You can’t inside this school —”

“The stairs!” cries Dawlish, and he flings himself upon the door, wrenches it open, and disappeares, followed closely by Kingsley and Umbridge. Fudge hesitates, then gets to his feet slowly, brushing dust from his front. There is a long and painful silence.

“Well, Minerva,” says Fudge nastily, straightening his torn shirtsleeve, “I’m afraid this is the end of your friend Dumbledore.”

“You think so, do you?” says Professor McGonagall scornfully.

Fudge seems not to hear her. He is looking around at the wrecked office. A few of the portraits hiss at him; one or two even make rude hand gestures.

“You’d better get those two off to bed, and Miss Pendragon to the hospital wing” says Fudge, looking back at Professor McGonagall with a dismissive nod towards Harry, Marietta, and me.

She says nothing, but marches the three of us to the door. As it swings closed behind them, I hear Phineas Nigellus’s voice.

“You know, Minister, I disagree with Dumbledore on many counts . . . but you cannot deny he’s got style . . .”


	25. Career Advice Amongst Other Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 25- Career Advice Amongst Other Things

 

——— BY ORDER OF ———

The Ministry of Magic

 

Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

 

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight.

 

The notices had gone up all over the school overnight, but they do not explain how every single person within the castle seems to know that Dumbledore overcame two Aurors, the High Inquisitor, the Minister of Magic, and his Junior Assistant to escape. No matter where I go within the castle next day, the sole topic of conversation is Dumbledore’s flight, and though some of the details may have gone awry in the retelling (I overhear one second-year girl assuring another that Fudge is now lying in St. Mungo’s with a pumpkin for a head), it is surprising how accurate the rest of their information is. Everybody seems aware, for instance, that Harry, Marietta, and I were the only students to have witnessed the scene in Dumbledore’s office, and as Marietta is now in the hospital wing, Harry and I found ourselves besieged with requests to give a firsthand account wherever we go.

“Dumbledore will be back before long,” says Ernie Macmillan confidently on the way back from Herbology after listening intently to Harry’s and my story. “They couldn’t keep him away in our second year and they won’t be able to this time. The Fat Friar told me . . .” He drops his voice conspiratorially, so that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I have to lean closer to him to hear, “. . . that Umbridge tried to get back into his office last night after they’d searched the castle and grounds for him. Couldn’t get past the gargoyle. The Head’s office has sealed itself against her.” Ernie smirks. “Apparently she had a right little tantrum . . .”

I smile at that, for it is one of the only good pieces of news that I’ve heard. Ariana has been a little lifeless today. After hearing about what happened to her grandfather, she had broken down into tears, but that was all. She pulled herself together and told me in no certain words that she was going to oust that vile toad even if it was with her last dying breath, for it would be what her grandfather would want.

I’m happy at least that she doesn’t blame Harry and me. We both tried apologizing to her but she firmly glared at the pair of us, and said that there was nothing that we could have done. Pansy Parkinson even had a bloody nose mysteriously by the time that breakfast came around.

“Oh, I expect she really fancied herself sitting up there in the Head’s office,” says Hermione viciously, as we walk up the stone steps into the entrance hall. “Lording it over all the other teachers, the stupid puffed-up, power-crazy old —”

“Now, do you really want to finish that sentence, Granger?”

Draco Malfoy has slid out from behind the door, followed by Crabbe and Goyle. His pale, pointed face is alight with malice.

“Afraid I’m going to have to dock a few points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff,” he drawls.

“You can’t take points from fellow prefects, Malfoy,” says Ernie at once.

“I know prefects can’t dock points from each other,” sneers Malfoy; Crabbe and Goyle snigger. “But members of the Inquisitorial Squad —”

“The what?” says Hermione sharply.

“The Inquisitorial Squad, Granger,” says Malfoy, pointing towards a tiny silver I upon his robes just beneath his prefect’s badge. “A select group of students who are supportive of the Ministry of Magic, hand-picked by Professor Umbridge. Anyway, members of the Inquisitorial Squad do have the power to dock points. . . . So, Granger, I’ll have five from you for being rude about our new headmistress. . . . Macmillan, five for contradicting me. . . . Five because I don’t like you, Potter . . . Weasley, your shirt’s untucked, so I’ll have another five for that. . . . Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re a Mudblood, Granger, so ten for that . . . and you Pendragon I’ll take another five just because I can… and Dumbledore ten points for being related to the old Head.”

Ron pulls out his wand, but Hermione pushes it away, whispering, “Don’t!”

“Wise move, Granger,” breathes Malfoy. “New Head, new times . . . Be good now, Potty . . . Weasel King . . .”

He strides away, laughing heartily with Crabbe and Goyle. Ariana glares after them, and I grab her hand quickly to stop her. She looks at me with flashing eyes, and I shake my head softly. “He’s not worth losing more points Ari.” I tell her softly.

“He was bluffing,” says Ernie, looking appalled. “He can’t be allowed to dock points . . . that would be ridiculous. . . . It would completely undermine the prefect system . . .”

But Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I turned automatically towards the giant hourglasses set in niches along the wall behind us, which records the House points. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were neck and neck in the lead that morning. Even as we watch, stones fly upward, reducing the amounts in the lower bulbs. In fact, the only glass that seems unchanged is the emerald-filled one of Slytherin.

“Noticed, have you?” says Fred’s voice.

He and George have just come down the marble staircase and joined Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ernie, Ariana, and me in front of the hourglasses.

“Malfoy just docked us all about fifty points,” says Harry furiously, as we watch several more stones fly upwards from the Gryffindor hourglass.

“Yeah, Montague tried to do us during break,” says George.

“What do you mean, ‘tried’?” says Ron quickly.

“He never managed to get all the words out,” says Fred, “due to the fact that we forced him headfirst into that Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor.”

I smirk at that and Ariana nods happily.

Hermione looks very shocked though.

“But you’ll get into terrible trouble!”

“Not until Montague reappears, and that could take weeks, I dunno where we sent him,” says Fred coolly. “Anyway . . . we’ve decided we don’t care about getting into trouble anymore.”

“Have you ever?” asks Hermione.

“’Course we have,” says George. “Never been expelled, have we?”

“We’ve always known where to draw the line,” says Fred.

“We might have put a toe across it occasionally,” says George.

“But we’ve always stopped short of causing real mayhem,” says Fred.

“But now?” says Ron tentatively.

“Well, now —” says George.

“— what with Dumbledore gone —” says Fred.

“— we reckon a bit of mayhem —” says George.

“— is exactly what our dear new Head deserves,” says Fred. I grin a little maniacally and nod my head earnestly. Ariana finally seems come to her senses out of her small rage.

“No Jamie. You’re only in fifth year. You can’t help them with anything.” She tells me seriously. I deflate a little at that and look at the twins sadly.

“No worries Jame, you’ll have plenty more time to cause mayhem.” George says agreeably. I smile at that.

“You mustn’t!” whispers Hermione. “You really mustn’t! She’d love a reason to expel you!”

“You don’t get it, Hermione, do you?” says Fred, smiling at her. “We don’t care about staying anymore. We’d walk out right now if we weren’t determined to do our bit for Dumbledore first. So anyway,” he checks his watch, “phase one is about to begin. I’d get in the Great Hall for lunch if I were you, that way the teachers will see you can’t have had anything to do with it.”

“Anything to do with what?” says Hermione anxiously.

“You’ll see,” says George. “Run along, now.”

Fred and George turn away and disappear in the swelling crowd descending the stairs towards lunch. Looking highly disconcerted, Ernie mutters something about unfinished Transfiguration homework and scurries away.

“I think we should get out of here, you know,” says Hermione nervously. “Just in case . . .”

“Yeah, all right,” says Ron, and the five of us move towards the doors to the Great Hall, but I have barely glimpsed today’s ceiling of scudding white clouds when somebody taps Harry hon the shoulder and, turning, he finds himself almost nose to nose with Filch, the caretaker. He takes several hasty steps backward; Filch is best viewed at a distance.

“The headmistress would like to see you, Potter,” he leers.

“I didn’t do it,” says Harry stupidly, thinking of whatever Fred and George are planning. Filch’s jowls wobble with silent laughter.

“Guilty conscience, eh?” he wheezes. “Follow me . . .”

Ron, Hermione, Ariana, and I look after Harry worriedly. My hands are shaking at my sides. I don’t like the fact that Harry is going alone to deal with Umbridge one little bit. Ariana pats me on the arm, before muttering goodbye to go and sit with the rest of the Hufflepuffs.

Hermione, Ron, and I sit down at the Gryffindor table. I slide into place next to Ginny and she looks at me sadly. “You know?” I whisper. She nods sadly and lets her head fall to my shoulder. I squeeze her hand before putting some food onto my plate before eats all of it.

The four of us talk in hushed voices for a few minutes before a giant BOOM sounds out. I’m out of my seat before anyone can say anything, I race up two flights of stairs and stop dead at the sight.

Somebody (and I have a very shrewd idea who) has set off what seems to be an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks.

Dragons comprised entirely of green-and-gold sparks are soaring up and down the corridors, emitting loud fiery blasts and bangs as they go. Shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter are whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying saucers. Rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars are ricocheting off the walls. Sparklers are writing swearwords in midair of their own accord. Firecrackers are exploding like mines everywhere I look, and instead of burning themselves out, fading from sight, or fizzling to a halt, these pyrotechnical miracles seem to be gaining in energy and momentum the longer I watch.

I see Harry and sneak my way over to him. He raises an eyebrow at me and I shrug my shoulders, who would seriously want to miss this?

Filch and Umbridge are standing, apparently transfixed with horror, halfway down the stairs. As Harry and I watch, one of the larger Catherine wheels seems to decide that what it needs is more room to maneuver; it whirls towards Umbridge and Filch with a sinister wheeeeeeeeee. Both adults yell with fright and duck and it soars straight out of the window behind them and off across the grounds. Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple bat that is smoking ominously take advantage of the open door at the end of the corridor to escape towards the second floor.

“Hurry, Filch, hurry!” shrieks Umbridge. “They’ll be all over the school unless we do something — Stupefy!”

A jet of red light shoots out of the end of her wand and hits one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it explodes with such force that it blasts a hole in a painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a meadow — she runs for it just in time, reappearing seconds later squashed into the painting next door, where a couple of wizards playing cards stand up hastily to make room for her.

“Don’t Stun them, Filch!” shouts Umbridge angrily, for all the world as though it was his suggestion.

“Right you are, Headmistress!” wheezes Filch, who is a Squib and can no more have Stunned the fireworks than swallowed them. He dashes to a nearby cupboard, pulls out a broom, and begins swatting at the fireworks in midair; within seconds the head of the broom is ablaze.

Harry has seen enough, he motions for me to follow him. Laughing, we duck down low, run to a door we knew is concealed behind a tapestry a little way along the corridor and slip through it to find Fred and George hiding just behind it, listening to Umbridge’s and Filch’s yells and quaking with suppressed mirth.

“Impressive,” Harry says quietly, grinning. “Very impressive . . . You’ll put Dr. Filibuster out of business, no problem . . .”

“That was brilliant you two!” I whisper throwing my arms around both of them.

“Cheers,” whispers George, wiping tears of laughter from his face. “Oh, I hope she tries Vanishing them next. . . . They multiply by ten every time you try . . .”

The fireworks continue to burn and to spread all over the school that afternoon. Though they cause plenty of disruption, particularly the firecrackers, the other teachers do not seem to mind them very much.

“Dear, dear,” says Professor McGonagall sardonically, as one of the dragons soars around her classroom, emitting loud bangs and exhaling flame. “Miss Brown, would you mind running along to the headmistress and informing her that we have an escaped firework in our classroom?”

The upshot of it all is that Professor Umbridge spends her first afternoon as headmistress running all over the school answering the summonses of the other teachers, none of whom seem able to rid their rooms of the fireworks without her. When the final bell rings and the students are heading back to Gryffindor Tower with their bags, I see, with immense satisfaction, a disheveled and soot-blackened Umbridge tottering sweaty-faced from Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

“Thank you so much, Professor!” says Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice.  “I could have got rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn’t sure whether I had the authority . . .”

Beaming, he closes his classroom door in her snarling face.

Fred and George are heroes that night in the Gryffindor common room. Even Hermione fights her way through the excited crowd around them to congratulate them.

“They were wonderful fireworks,” she says admiringly.

“Thanks,” says George, looking both surprised and pleased. “Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs. Only thing is, we used our whole stock, we’re going to have to start again from scratch now . . .”

“It was worth it, though,” says Fred, who is taking orders from clamoring Gryffindors. “If you want to add your name to the waiting list, Hermione, it’s five Galleons for your Basic Blaze box and twenty for the Deflagration Deluxe . . .”

Hermione returns to the table where Harry, Ron, and I are sitting staring at our schoolbags as though hoping our homework might spring out of it and start doing itself.

“Oh, why don’t we have a night off?” says Hermione brightly, as a silver-tailed Weasley rocket zooms past the window. “After all, the Easter holidays start on Friday, we’ll have plenty of time then . . .”

“Are you feeling all right?” Ron asks, staring at her in disbelief.

“Now you mention it,” says Hermione happily, “d’you know . . . I think I’m feeling a bit . . . rebellious.”

I widen my eyes in disbelief at that. “Who are you and where is my Mione?” I demand poking her arm, while she tries to slap my hand away.

I can still hear the distant bangs of escaped firecrackers when Hermione and I go up to bed an hour later, and as we get undressed a sparkler floats past the tower, still resolutely spelling out the word “POO”.

That night after a few hours asleep we’re all woken up by another loud BANG! The door to our dorm bursts open and an over excited Ginny dashes in, flying onto my bed practically knocking me off. “What?” I grumble.

“Look! Look! Look!” She squeals shaking my shoulder as a sleepy Hermione slides out of bed and pulls aside the curtain we fashioned over the window.

Glittering, pink-and-silver winged piglets are now soaring past the windows of Gryffindor Tower. Lavender and Parvati join the three of us at the window so that we can watch the piglet fireworks. Well this certainly has been a good night. 

* * *

 

“But why haven’t you got Occlumency lessons anymore?” says Hermione, frowning.

“I’ve told you,” Harry mutters. “Snape reckons I can carry on by myself now I’ve got the basics . . .”

“So you’ve stopped having funny dreams?” says Hermione skeptically.

“Pretty much,” says Harry, not looking at her.

“Well, I don’t think Snape should stop until you’re absolutely sure you can control them!” says Hermione indignantly. “Harry, I think you should go back to him and ask —”

“No,” says Harry forcefully. “Just drop it, Hermione, okay?”

It is the first day of the Easter holidays and Hermione, as is her custom, has spent a large part of the day drawing up study schedules for the four of us. Harry, Ron, and I let her do it — it is easier than arguing with her and, in any case, they might come in useful.

Ron is startled to discover that there are only six weeks left until our exams.

“How can that come as a shock?” Hermione demands, as she taps each little square on Ron’s schedule with her wand so that it flashes a different color according to its subject.

“I dunno . . .” says Ron, “there’s been a lot going on . . .”

“Well, there you are,” she says, handing him his schedule, “if you follow that you should do fine.”

Ron looks down it gloomily, but then brightens.

“You’ve given me an evening off every week!”

“That’s for Quidditch practice,” says Hermione. The smile fades from Ron’s face.

“What’s the point?” he says. “We’ve got about as much chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as Dad’s got of becoming Minister of Magic . . .”

Hermione says nothing and I play with my quill bored. She is looking at Harry, who is staring blankly at the opposite wall of the common room while Crookshanks paws at his hand, trying to get his ears scratched.

“What’s wrong, Harry?”

“What?” he says quickly. “Nothing . . .”

He seizes his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and pretends to be looking something up in the index. Crookshanks gives him up as a bad job and slinks away under Hermione’s chair.

“I saw Cho earlier,” says Hermione tentatively, “and she looked really miserable too. . . . Have you two had a row again?”

“Wha — oh yeah, we have,” says Harry, seizing gratefully on the excuse.

“What about?”

“That sneak friend of hers, Marietta,” says Harry.

“The sneak.” I say making a face at that.

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame you!” says Ron angrily, setting down his study schedule.  “If it hadn’t been for her . . .”

Ron goes into a rant about Marietta Edgecombe. I turn it out for the most part and continue doodling in my sketchbook, allowing my mind to drift.

The weather grows breezier, brighter, and warmer as the holidays pass, but I’m stuck with the rest of the fifth and seventh years, who are all trapped inside, traipsing back and forth to the library. Harry and the rest of the fifth years are all in a perpetual bad mood. The stress of exams is really beginning to get to us.

“Harry, I’m talking to you, can you hear me?” Ginny says having suddenly appeared in front of the two of us at our table in the library.

“Huh?” Harry says, and I set down my quill to give the girl my attention. I needed a break anyway.

Ginny, looking very wind-swept, has joined us. It is late on Sunday evening; Hermione has gone back to Gryffindor Tower to review Ancient Runes; Ron has Quidditch practice.

“Oh hi,” says Harry, pulling his books back toward him. “How come you’re not at practice?”

“It’s over,” says Ginny. “Ron had to take Jack Sloper up to the hospital wing.”

“Why?” I demand not liking that practice had ended this early again.

“Well, we’re not sure, but we think he knocked himself out with his own bat.” She sighs heavily. “Anyway . . . a package just arrived, it’s only just got through Umbridge’s new screening process . . .”

She hoisted a box wrapped in brown paper onto the table; it has clearly been unwrapped and carelessly rewrapped, and there is a scribbled note across it in red ink, reading INSPECTED AND PASSED BY THE HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR.

“It’s Easter eggs from Mum,” says Ginny. “There’s one for you, you too Jame. . . . There you go . . .”

She hands him a handsome chocolate egg decorated with small, iced Snitches and, according to the packaging, containing a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Harry looked at it for a moment, then, looks like he’s going to cry, as Ginny says that she’ll give me mine later. She’s going to hold it hostage until I help her with her Charms homework like a promised. At least it will be a little different than the kind of studying that I was doing before.

“Are you okay, Harry?” asks Ginny quietly.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Harry gruffly.

“You seem really down lately,” Ginny persists. “You know, I’m sure if you just talked to Cho . . .”

“Yes I’ve seen her around looks miserable.” I mumble under my breath so as to not upset him. Harry has already snapped a few times this vacation.

“It’s not Cho I want to talk to,” says Harry brusquely.

“Who is it, then?” asks Ginny. I watch the two of them and the unbidden thought that the pair would make a cute couple comes over me.

“I . . .” Harry glances around to make quite sure that nobody is listening; Madam Pince is several shelves away, stamping out a pile of books for a frantic-looking Hannah Abbott.

“I wish I could talk to Sirius,” he mutters. “But I know I can’t.”

Harry unwraps his Easter egg, breaks off a large bit, and puts it into his mouth.

“Well,” says Ginny slowly, helping herself to a bit of egg too so I steal some as well, “if you really want to talk to Sirius, I expect we could think of a way to do it . . .”

“Come on,” says Harry hopelessly. “With Umbridge policing the fires and reading all our mail?”

“The thing about growing up with Fred and George,” says Ginny thoughtfully, “is that you sort of start thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”

I grin at her knowing that that is very much true, and I’ve only lived with them for two years.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

“Oh damn,” whispers Ginny, jumping to her feet. “I forgot —”

Madam Pince is swooping down upon us, her shriveled face contorted with rage.

“Chocolate in the library!” she screams. “Out — out — OUT!”

And whipping out her wand, she causes Harry’s books, bag, and ink bottle to chase him, Ginny, and me from the library, whacking us repeatedly over the head as we run.

Needless to say that that night I take my egg from Ginny by force, since I now have a book shaped red mark on my forehead.

* * *

 

As though to underline the importance of our upcoming examinations, a batch of pamphlets, leaflets, and notices concerning various Wizarding careers appear on the tables in Gryffindor Tower shortly before the end of the holidays, along with yet another notice on the board, which reads:

 

CAREER ADVICE

 

All fifth years will be required to attend a short meeting with their Head of House during the first week of the Summer term, in which they will be given the opportunity to discuss their future careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below.

 

I look down the list and find that I am expected in Professor McGonagall’s office at half-past one on Monday, which would mean missing some of Divination. Harry is to go right after me. The fifth years spend a considerable part of the final weekend of the Easter break reading all the career information that have been left there for our perusal.

“Well, I don’t fancy Healing,” says Ron on the last evening of the holidays. He is immersed in a leaflet that carries the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungo’s on its front. “It says here you need at least an E at N.E.W.T. level in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. I mean . . . blimey. . . . Don’t want much, do they?”

“Well, it’s a very responsible job, isn’t it?” says Hermione absently. She is poring over a bright pink-and-orange leaflet that is headed SO YOU THINK YOU’D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE RELATIONS? “You don’t seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles. . . . All they want is an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies . . . ‘Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience, and a good sense of fun!’”

“You’d need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle,” says Harry darkly. “Good sense of when to duck, more like . . .” He is halfway through a pamphlet on Wizard banking. “Listen to this:

“‘Are you seeking a challenging career involving travel, adventure, and substantial, danger-related treasure bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse-Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad . . . ’ They want Arithmancy, though. . . . You could do it, Hermione!”

“I don’t much fancy banking,” says Hermione vaguely, now immersed in HAVE YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES TO TRAIN SECURITY TROLLS?

I sigh. I’ve read a lot of these pamphlets and none of them have really jumped out at me. They sound fun but the courses needed to take them are numerous and challenging. Again the feeling that my future lies outside standard jobs floats into my mind. At least Arthur told me before that I can do whatever I want despite the lack of prestige.

“Hey,” says a voice in Harry’s ear. He looks around; Fred and George have come to join us. “Ginny’s had a word with us about you,” says Fred, stretching out his legs on the table in front of us and causing several booklets on careers with the Ministry of Magic to slide off onto the floor. “She says you need to talk to Sirius?”

“What?” says Hermione sharply, freezing with her hand halfway towards picking up MAKE A BANG AT THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL ACCIDENTS AND CATASTROPHES.

“Yeah . . .” says Harry, trying to sound casual, “yeah, I thought I’d like —”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” says Hermione, straightening up and looking at him as though she can not believe her eyes. “With Umbridge groping around in the fires and frisking all the owls?”

“Well, we think we can find a way around that,” says George, stretching and smiling. “It’s a simple matter of causing a diversion. Now, you might have noticed that we have been rather quiet on the mayhem front during the Easter holidays?”

“What was the point, we asked ourselves, of disrupting leisure time?” continues Fred. “No point at all, we answered ourselves. And of course, we’d have messed up people’s studying too, which would be the very last thing we’d want to do.”

He gives Hermione a sanctimonious little nod. She looks rather taken aback by this thoughtfulness.

“But it’s business as usual from tomorrow,” Fred continues briskly. “And if we’re going to be causing a bit of uproar, why not do it so that Harry can have his chat with Sirius?”

“Yes, but still,” says Hermione with an air of explaining something very simple to somebody very obtuse, “even if you do cause a diversion, how is Harry supposed to talk to him?”

“Umbridge’s office,” says Harry quietly. I raise my eyebrow at that.

“That’s her den Harry, I’m not sure if even I would want to go there.” I say nervously.

“Are — you — insane?” says Hermione in a hushed voice.

Ron has lowered his leaflet on jobs in the cultivated fungus trade and is watching the conversation warily.

“I don’t think so,” says Harry, shrugging.

“And how are you going to get in there in the first place?”

Harry is ready for this question.

“Sirius’s knife,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Christmas before last Sirius gave me a knife that’ll open any lock,” says Harry. “So even if she’s bewitched the door so Alohomora won’t work, which I bet she has —”

“What do you think about this?” Hermione demands of Ron, and I am reminded irresistibly of Molly appealing to her husband.

“I dunno,” says Ron, looking alarmed at being asked to give an opinion. “If Harry wants to do it, it’s up to him, isn’t it?”

“Spoken like a true friend and Weasley,” says Fred, clapping Ron hard on the back.

“I’ll have your back Harry. Everyone needs a good look out.” I say with a shrug.

“Right, then. We’re thinking of doing it tomorrow, just after lessons, because it should cause maximum impact if everybody’s in the corridors — Harry, we’ll set it off in the east wing somewhere, draw her right away from her own office — I reckon we should be able to guarantee you, what, twenty minutes?” he says, looking at George.

“Easy,” says George.

“What sort of diversion is it?” asks Ron.

“You’ll see, little bro,” says Fred, as he and George get up again. “At least, you will if you trot along to Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor round about five o’clock tomorrow.”

Well that sounds like a plan to me.

* * *

 

Hermione spends most of the next day trying to think of ways to discourage Harry from going through with his plan of talking with Sirius at five. For the first time ever, she is at least as inattentive to Professor Binns in History of Magic as Harry, Ron, and I are, keeping up a stream of whispered admonitions that Harry tries very hard to ignore.

“. . . and if she does catch you there, apart from being expelled, she’ll be able to guess you’ve been talking to Snuffles and this time I expect she’ll force you to drink Veritaserum and answer her questions . . .”

“Hermione,” says Ron in a low and indignant voice, “are you going to stop telling Harry off and listen to Binns, or am I going to have to take notes instead?”

“You take notes for a change, it won’t kill you!”

By the time we reach the dungeons, neither Harry or Ron is speaking to Hermione any longer. Undeterred, she takes advantage of their silence to maintain an uninterrupted flow of dire warnings, all uttered under her breath in a vehement hiss that causes Seamus to waste five whole minutes checking his cauldron for leaks.

My appointment is half way through the lesson, so I finish my Invigoration Draught, and go up to the front to hand it in to Snape. He raises an unimpressed eye at me. “Career Advice.” I say simply in explanation. He nods his head and places it on a shelf behind him.

“Might I suggest not going for Potions Master.” He drawls. Malfoy snickers along with Pansy Parkinson at that comment. I turn around and roll my eyes at the ground.

“Wasn’t planning on it anyway.” I mumble.

I quickly pack up my stuff and make my way up to Professor McGonagall’s office. I knock on the door before entering. “Come in Pendragon.” Her voice calls out and I open the door, freezing the moment I see the vile pink creature sitting in a chair in the corner.

Professor Umbridge is sitting there, a clipboard on her knee, a fussy little pie-frill around her neck, and a small, horribly smug smile on her face.

“Sit down, Pendragon,” says Professor McGonagall tersely. Her hands shake slightly as she shuffles the many pamphlets littering her desk.

I sit down with my back to Umbridge and do my best to pretend I cannot hear the scratching of her quill on her clipboard.

“Well, Pendragon, this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have, and to help you decide which subjects you should continue into sixth and seventh years,” says Professor McGonagall. “Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?”

I shift nervously in my chair and Umbridge coughs. Professor keeps her gaze focused on me though. “Well I don’t know, I looked at all the pamphlets that were laid out, and none really caught my attention.” I admit shakily. Something akin to a smug cough comes from behind me, that is if a cough can be smug.

“What about the Pendragon position held open in the Wizengamot for your family?” She asks me staring directly into my eyes, which unnerves me slightly.

I shake my head firmly at that. “No. Luka is the one who is better for the family position. He actually likes politics, and wants to do our parents proud with that. I’m much… simpler in my desires.” I say with a sheepish smile. Surprisingly McGonagall doesn’t look disappointed in me. I was not really expecting that. Not many people understand why I don’t want to take over my family’s seat.

“So what exactly do you see yourself doing Jamie?” She asks me then. I fidget in my seat again not liking that I have to expose my innermost thoughts with Umbridge there. She would like nothing more than to lock me up and throw away the key.

“Well… I like using my hands. I’m advanced in my Charms work.” I say with a shrug. There another cough from the toad.

“Would you like a cough drop Professor Umbridge?” McGonagall enquires with a glare.

“No, no, carry on…” She says with a smirk on her face that makes me feel smaller than I ever have in front of her.

“Well there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that Pendragon. There are a lot of fields out there that are respectable but are outside traditional job prospects.” I can’t help but smile at that.

Professor McGonagall pushes a sheet of paper in front of me and I look down a long list of jobs that don’t deal with the Ministry and I could easily do. “I think it safe to keep you on your current classes except for possibly Divination that subject is not required for any of the jobs on those lists, we could possibly replace it with another extracurricular. Think on it Jamie, with you desires you have time to decide.” She says. I nod my head and clutch the sheet of paper a little tighter in my hands.

“Figures she would not be fit for greater things.” Umbridge mumbles but I hear her. A pang of pain runs through me, and I curse myself not for the first time that I even care anything about what she says.

“Miss Pendragon is an exemplary student Professor Umbridge, in all her years at Hogwarts she has kept every grade around Exceeds Expectations, and the only grade currently lacking this year is yours, but that may be explainable by your subpar levels of teaching instead of her capabilities.” Professor McGonagall says with a steely glare.

“You are dismissed Pendragon, if you see Potter send him in please.” McGonagall says still locked in a heated glare with Umbridge. I scurry out of my seat and the office without a second glance back. That was one of the most uncomfortable situations that I have ever been in before.

As I was getting out of the room Harry was running up to it. “Good luck, you’re going to need it.” I mumble clutching my list tighter in my hands. I don’t know what’s up with Professor McGonagall and her being nicer to me, but I’m not going to turn down this unexpected niceness.

* * *

Professor Umbridge is breathing as though she has just run a race when she strides into our Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that afternoon.

“I hope you’ve thought better of what you were planning to do, Harry,” Hermione whispers, the moment we have opened our books to chapter thirty-four (“Non-Retaliation and Negotiation”). “Umbridge looks like she’s in a really bad mood already . . .”

Every now and then Umbridge shoots glowering looks at Harry and then me. I wonder what exactly went on during Harry’s meeting. All I got out of him is that he’s planning on becoming an Auror. I think that’s a great job for Harry, and there would honestly be no one better at that.

“Harry, don’t do it, please don’t do it!” Hermione says in anguished tones as the bell rings at the end of the class.

He does not answer. He looks to us. Ron seems determined to give neither his opinion nor his advice. He will not look at Harry, though when Hermione opens her mouth to try dissuading Harry some more, he says in a low voice, “Give it a rest, okay? He can make up his own mind.”

“Yeah it is your choice in the end, but know that whatever you decide, I will stand by you.” I tell him seriously, placing my hand over the folded piece of paper in my cloak that holds actual options for my future.

My heart beats very fast as we leave the classroom. We are halfway along the corridor outside when we heard the unmistakable sounds of a diversion going off in the distance. There are screams and yells reverberating from somewhere above us. People exiting the classrooms all around us are stopping in our tracks and looking up at the ceiling fearfully —

Then Umbridge comes pelting out of her classroom as fast as her short legs will carry her. Pulling out her wand, she hurries off in the opposite direction: It is now or never.

“Harry — please!” says Hermione weakly.

But Harry has made up his mind — hitching his bag more securely onto his shoulder he sets off at a run with me behind him, weaving in and out of students now hurrying in the opposite direction, off to see what all the fuss was about in the east wing. . . .

When we get to her office Harry works open the door with Sirius’ knife, and glances back at me.

“Go. It’s your conversation Harry. I’ll keep watch here. Make it quick, and even more, make it count.” I say seriously, as I plant myself on the doorjamb glancing cautiously down the corridor on each side. If I get caught now I’m sure to be expelled and then Molly will kill me for sure. I was lucky that we didn’t get in trouble the first time, but that was because Dumbledore sacrificed himself for us.

Time seems to crawl as I stand guard listening to Harry’s soft words to Sirius and Lupin in the room, and to the still distant screams.

Suddenly Filch turns the corner, and I quickly rap my knuckles on the door, glad to see Harry diving for his cloak. Filch glares at me as he sees me standing across from Umbridge’s office.

“What are you doin’ here?” He growls.

“She wanted to see me but she’s not here.” I say quickly. Filch doesn’t seem to care too much though, for he just goes into the office.

“She’s out dealing with a mess, and I’m for once going to get my due!” He cackles. I feel the air shuffle beside me, and I quickly start down the hall with what I’m sure is an invisible Harry.

One landing down from Umbridge’s office and Harry thinks it is safe to become visible again; he pulls off the Cloak, shoves it in his bag and hurries onward. “See I came in use after all.” I say with a grin.

Harry rolls his eyes at me and we hurry on. There is a great deal of shouting and movement coming from the entrance hall. We run down the marble staircase and found what looks like most of the school assembled there.

It is just like the night when Trelawney was sacked. Students are standing all around the walls in a great ring (some of them, I notice, covered in a substance that looks very like Stinksap); teachers and ghosts are also in the crowd. Prominent among the onlookers are members of the Inquisitorial Squad, who are all looking exceptionally pleased with themselves, and Peeves, who is bobbing overhead, gazing down upon Fred and George, who stand in the middle of the floor with the unmistakable look of two people who have just been cornered.

“So!” says Umbridge triumphantly, whom I realize was standing just a few stairs in front of us, once more looking down upon her prey. “So . . . you think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?”

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” says Fred, looking back up at her without the slightest sign of fear.

Filch elbows his way closer to Umbridge, almost crying with happiness.

“I’ve got the form, Headmistress,” he says hoarsely, waving the piece of parchment.  “I’ve got the form and I’ve got the whips waiting. . . . Oh, let me do it now . . .”

“Very good, Argus,” she says. “You two,” she goes on, gazing down at Fred and George, “are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school.” She plans on whipping them? Over my dead body will that happen.

“You know what?” says Fred. “I don’t think we are.”

He turns to his twin.

“George,” says Fred, “I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” says George lightly.

“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you reckon?” asks Fred.

“Definitely,” says George.

And before Umbridge can say a word, they raise their wands and say together,  “Accio Brooms!”

I hear a loud crash somewhere in the distance. Looking to my left I duck just in time — Fred and George’s broomsticks, one still trailing the heavy chain and iron peg with which Umbridge fastened them to the wall, are hurtling along the corridor towards their owners. They turn left, streak down the stairs, and stop sharply in front of the twins, the chain clattering loudly on the flagged stone floor.

“We won’t be seeing you,” Fred tells Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick.

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” says George, mounting his own.

Fred looks around at the assembled students, and at the silent, watchful crowd.

“If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley — Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,” he says in a loud voice. “Our new premises!”

“Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,” adds George, pointing at Professor Umbridge.

“STOP THEM!” shrieks Umbridge, but it is too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closes in, Fred and George kick off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looks across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd.

“Give her hell from us, Peeves.”

And Peeves, whom I have never seen take an order from a student before, sweeps his belled hat from his head and springs to a salute as Fred and George wheel about to tumultuous applause from the students below and speed out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset. I applaud along with everyone else, but can’t help but heel a little sad that I’ll never see my favorite pair of redheads in the halls at school ever again.


	26. Grawp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 26- Grawp

 

The story of Fred and George’s flight to freedom is retold so often over the next few days that I can tell it will soon become the stuff of Hogwarts legend. Within a week, even those who have been eyewitnesses are half-convinced that they saw the twins dive-bomb Umbridge on their brooms, pelting her with Dungbombs before zooming out of the doors. In the immediate aftermath of their departure there is a great wave of talk about copying them, so that I frequently hear students saying things like, “Honestly, some days I just feel like jumping on my broom and leaving this place,” or else, “One more lesson like that and I might just do a Weasley . . .”

Fred and George have made sure that nobody is likely to forget them very soon. For one thing, they did not left instructions on how to remove the swamp that now fills the corridor on the fifth floor of the east wing. Umbridge and Filch have been observed trying different means of removing it but without success. Eventually the area is roped off and Filch, gnashing his teeth furiously, is given the task of punting students across it to their classrooms. I am certain that teachers like McGonagall or Flitwick could have removed the swamp in an instant, but just as in the case of Fred and George’s Wildfire Whiz-Bangs, they seem to prefer to watch Umbridge struggle.

Then there are the two large broom-shaped holes in Umbridge’s office door, through which Fred and George’s Cleansweeps have smashed to rejoin their masters. Filch fits a new door and removes Harry’s and my Firebolts to the dungeons where, it is rumored, Umbridge has set an armed security troll to guard it. However, her troubles are far from over.

Inspired by Fred and George’s example, a great number of students are now vying for the newly vacant positions of Troublemakers-in-Chief. In spite of the new door, somebody manages to slip a hairy-snouted niffler into Umbridge’s office, which promptly tears the place apart in its search for shiny objects, leaps on Umbridge on her reentrance, and tries to gnaw the rings off her stubby fingers. Dungbombs and Stinkpellets are dropped so frequently in the corridors that it becomes the new fashion for students to perform Bubble-Head Charms on themselves before leaving lessons, which ensures them a supply of fresh clean air, even though it gives them all the peculiar appearance of wearing upside-down goldfish bowls on their heads.

Ariana asked me one day why I didn’t throw my hat into the mischief ring. I had taken a deep breath, and sighed. “It doesn’t feel right without my partners in crime anymore. Sure I may pull out a few grand tricks every now and then, but honestly I don’t need that to be happy.” I say with a sigh.

Filch prowls the corridors with a horsewhip ready in his hands, desperate to catch miscreants, but the problem is that there are now so many of them that he does not know which way to turn. The Inquisitorial Squad are attempting to help him, but odd things keep happening to its members. Warrington of the Slytherin Quidditch team reports to the hospital wing with a horrible skin complaint that makes him look as though he has been coated in cornflakes. Pansy Parkinson, to Hermione’s delight, misses all her lessons the following day, as she has sprouted antlers.

I would pay anything to see that. Meanwhile it becomes clear just how many Skiving Snackboxes Fred and George managed to sell before leaving Hogwarts. Umbridge only has to enter her classroom for the students assembled there to faint, vomit, develop dangerous fevers, or else spout blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and frustration she attempts to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students tell her stubbornly they are suffering “Umbridge-itis.” After putting four successive classes in detention and failing to discover their secret she is forced to give up and allow the bleeding, swooning, sweating, and vomiting students to leave her classes in droves.

I will admit to using that once or twice myself.

But not even the users of the Snackboxes can compete with that master of chaos, Peeves, who seems to have taken Fred’s parting words deeply to heart. Cackling madly, he soars through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, and toppling statues and vases. Twice he shuts Mrs. Norris inside suits of armor, from which she is rescued, yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. He smashes lanterns and snuffs out candles, juggled burning torches over the heads of screaming students, causes neatly stacked piles of parchment to topple into fires or out of windows, floods the second floor when he pulls off all the taps in the bathrooms, drops a bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast and, whenever he fancies a break, spends hours at a time floating along after Umbridge and blowing loud raspberries every time she speaks.

None of the staff but Filch seems to be stirring themselves to help her. Indeed, a week after Fred and George’s departure I witness Professor McGonagall walking right past Peeves, who is determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and could have sworn I heard her tell the poltergeist out of the corner of her mouth, “It unscrews the other way.”

To cap matters, Montague has still not recovered from his sojourn in the toilet. He remains confused and disorientated and his parents are to be observed one Tuesday morning striding up the front drive, looking extremely angry.

“Should we say something?” says Hermione in a worried voice, pressing her cheek against the Charms window so that she can see Mr. and Mrs. Montague marching inside. “About what happened to him? In case it helps Madam Pomfrey cure him?”

“’Course not, he’ll recover,” says Ron indifferently.

“He deserves it anyway.” I grumble.

“Anyway, more trouble for Umbridge, isn’t it?” says Harry in a satisfied voice.

He and Ron both tap the teacups they are supposed to be charming with their wands. Harry’s spouts four very short legs that will not reach the desk and wriggles pointlessly in midair. Ron’s grows four very thin spindly legs that hoists the cup off the desk with great difficulty, trembles for a few seconds, then folds, causing the cup to crack into two.

“Reparo!” says Hermione quickly, mending Ron’s cup with a wave of her wand. “That’s all very well, but what if Montague’s permanently injured?”

“Who cares?” says Ron irritably, while his teacup stands drunkenly again, trembling violently at the knees. “Montague shouldn’t have tried to take all those points from Gryffindor, should he? If you want to worry about anyone, Hermione, worry about me and Jamie!”

“You two?” she says, catching her teacup as it scampers happily away across the desk on four sturdy little willow-patterned legs and replacing it in front of her. “Why should I be worried about you?”

My own teacup stumbles unsteady on its feet before taking some surer steps, I grab it with a pale face.

“When Mum’s next letter finally gets through Umbridge’s screening process,” says Ron bitterly, now holding his cup up while its frail legs try feebly to support its weight, “I’m going to be in deep trouble. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s sent a Howler again.”

“But —”

“It’ll be my fault Fred and George left, you wait,” says Ron darkly. “She’ll say I should’ve stopped them leaving, I should’ve grabbed the ends of their brooms and hung on or something. . . . Yeah, it’ll be all my fault . . .”

“She’ll claim that I provoked them.” I utter, suddenly very keen to never have Dionysus show up with a letter for me ever again.

“Well, if she does say that it’ll be very unfair, you two couldn’t have done anything! But I’m sure she won’t, I mean, if it’s really true they’ve got premises in Diagon Alley now, they must have been planning this for ages . . .”

“Oh they have. I just never tried to talk them out of it.” I say with a definitive nod.

“Yeah, but that’s another thing, how did they get premises?” says Ron, hitting his teacup so hard with his wand that its legs collapse again and it lays twitching before him. “It’s a bit dodgy, isn’t it? They’ll need loads of Galleons to afford the rent on a place in Diagon Alley, she’ll want to know what they’ve been up to, to get their hands on that sort of gold . . .”

“Well, yes, that occurred to me too,” says Hermione, allowing her teacup to jog in neat little circles around Harry’s, whose stubby little legs are still unable to touch the desktop. “I’ve been wondering whether Mundungus has persuaded them to sell stolen goods or something awful . . .”

“He hasn’t,” says Harry curtly. I share a quick guilty glance with Harry.

“How do you know?” say Ron and Hermione together.

“Because —” Harry hesitates, but the moment to confess finally seems to have come. There is no good to be gained in keeping silent if it meant anyone suspected that Fred and George were criminals. “Because they got the gold from me. I gave them my Triwizard winnings last June.”

“I helped them out as well with some gold.” I say sheepishly rubbing the back of my head.

There is a shocked silence, then Hermione’s teacup jogs right over the edge of the desk and smashes on the floor.

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t! And Jamie!” she says.

“Yes, I did,” says Harry mutinously. “And I don’t regret it either — I didn’t need the gold, and they’ll be great at a joke shop . . .”

“I’ve helped them with so much of the planning that I hold some stock in them. Harry too. They will be brilliant.” I defend the twins.

“But this is excellent!” says Ron, looking thrilled. “It’s all your fault, Harry — Mum can’t blame me at all! Can I tell her? Oh once she hears this Jamie, you will have wished you never agreed to become her daughter.”

I blanche and stare down at my cup woefully. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” I whisper.

“Yeah, I suppose you’d better,” says Harry dully. “’Specially if she thinks they’re receiving stolen cauldrons or something . . . just leave Jamie out of it as much as you can.”

I give Harry a weak smile but shake my head. “She’s going to find out eventually Harry. I might as well throw myself at her mercy now rather than later.” I say regretfully.

Hermione says nothing at all for the rest of the lesson, but I have a shrewd suspicion that her self-restraint is bound to crack before long. Sure enough, once we have left the castle for break and are standing around in the weak May sunshine, she fixes Harry with a beady eye and opens her mouth with a determined air.

Harry interrupts her before she even starts.

“It’s no good nagging me, it’s done,” he says firmly. “Fred and George have got the gold — spent a good bit of it too, by the sounds of it — and I can’t get it back from them and I don’t want to. So save your breath, Hermione.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about Fred and George!” she says in an injured voice.

Ron snorts disbelievingly and Hermione throws him a very dirty look.

“No, I wasn’t!” she says angrily. “As a matter of fact, I was going to ask Harry when he’s going to go back to Snape and ask for Occlumency lessons again!”

That is what Sirius asked of Harry when they had talked with each other the day that Fred and George did the smartest thing they ever did and fled this place.

Sirius was very upset along with Lupin with the fact that Harry wasn’t learning Occlumency any more. They pretty much demanded that Harry go back to Snape and learn it so that Harry can be protected from Voldemort. As much as I hate Snape I’m not going to argue with them on this point. Harry really needs to be protected.

He told us about this a few days ago and I’m sure that he’s regretting it now at the rate Hermione’s been going after him to start his lessons back up again.

“You can’t tell me you’ve stopped having funny dreams,” Hermione says now, “because Ron told me last night you were muttering in your sleep again . . .”

Harry throws Ron a furious look. Ron had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

“You were only muttering a bit,” he mumbles apologetically. “Something about ‘just a bit farther.’”

“I dreamed I was watching you lot play Quidditch,” Harry lies brutally. “I was trying to get you to stretch out a bit farther to grab the Quaffle.”

Ron’s ears go red. I glare at Harry, he didn’t need to say that. Ron feels bad enough already.

“Lay off him Harry. Anyone with eyes can tell that there’s something bugging you, and the only thing that isn’t going better around here now is your steadfast refusal to do anything about your dreams.” I growl at him. Harry gives me a murderous look, and Hermione interrupts before our altercation can go any further.

“You are trying to block your mind, aren’t you?” says Hermione, looking beadily at Harry. “You are keeping going with your Occlumency?”

“Of course I am,” says Harry, but I can tell that by the look on his face he’s not really trying at all.

There is just under a month left before exams and everyone is starting to get seriously stressed out now. More and more people are flocked to Madam Pomfrey to receive calming draughts.

“You know,” says Ron, whose ears are still flaming red, “if Montague doesn’t recover before Slytherin play Hufflepuff, we might be in with a chance of winning the Cup.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so,” says Harry, glad of a change of subject.

“I mean, we’ve won one, lost one — if Slytherin lose to Hufflepuff next Saturday —”

“Yeah, that’s right,” says Harry, not really paying attention. I turn to see what has him so captivated and I see Cho in the courtyard looking anywhere but over here at him. That is never going to end well.

* * *

The final match of the Quidditch season, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, is to take place on the last weekend of May. Although Slytherin has been narrowly defeated by Hufflepuff in their last match, Gryffindor is not daring to hope for victory, due mainly (though of course nobody says it to him) to Ron’s abysmal goalkeeping record. He, however, seems to have found a new optimism.

“I mean, I can’t get any worse, can I?” he tells Harry, Hermione, and me grimly over breakfast on the morning of the match. “Nothing to lose now, is there?”

“You know,” says Hermione, as she, Harry, and I walk down to the pitch a little later in the midst of a very excitable crowd, “I think Ron might do better without Fred and George around. They never exactly gave him a lot of confidence . . .”

“I guess so.” I say with a shrug grinning when I see a familiar head of blond hair coming our way.

“Hey Pendragon. Fancy seeing you here amongst us peasants.” She says cheerily looping her arm through mine, and I feel a rush of pleasure at the close contact between us.

“A lifetime ban will do that to you Dumbledore. Besides, I see that there are some serious advantages to the ground as well.” I say with a smile. Ariana rolls her eyes at me, but there’s a smile on her face.

“You know just as well as I do Jamie that you’re a fly girl. If your ban was lifted this moment, you’d be out there on that pitch faster then I can blink.” She laughs. I bite my lip sheepishly knowing that she’s right.

“I’m not even going to try and deny that.” I say with a sigh. Harry and Hermione interrupt our moment then.

“Are you joining us in the stands Ariana?” Hermione asks the blond girl questioningly. Ariana nods her head.

“That is if you don’t mind.”

“Nonsense might as well spend the match with people I can stand, and who won’t glare at me for getting into the match.” Harry says easily with a faint smile.

The four of us continue our way to the stands.

Luna Lovegood overtakes us with what appears to be a live eagle perched on top of her head.

“Oh gosh, I forgot!” says Hermione, watching the eagle flapping its wings as Luna walks serenely past a group of cackling and pointing Slytherins. “Cho will be playing, won’t she?”

Harry, who has not forgotten this, merely grunts.

“I guess things have still been bad between the two of them.” Ariana whispers to me. I hum in agreement to that statement.

We find seats in the second to topmost row of the stands. It is a fine, clear day. Ron could not wish for better, and I find myself hoping against hope that Ron will not give the Slytherins cause for more rousing choruses of “Weasley Is Our King.”

Lee Jordan, who has been very dispirited since Fred and George left, is commentating as usual. As the teams zoom out onto the pitches he names the players with something less than his usual gusto.

“. . . Bradley . . . Davies . . . Chang,” he says, and I watch as Harry makes a face. I guess that things are really bad off.

“And they’re off!” says Lee. “And Davies takes the Quaffle immediately, Ravenclaw Captain Davies with the Quaffle, he dodges Johnson, he dodges Bell, he dodges Spinnet as well. . . . He’s going straight for goal! He’s going to shoot — and — and —” Lee swears very loudly. “And he’s scored.”

Harry, Hermione, and I groan with the rest of the Gryffindors. Predictably, horribly, the Slytherins on the other side of the stands begin to sing:

 

Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring . . .

 

“Harry,” says a hoarse voice in my ear. “Hermione . . . Jamie…”

I look around and see Hagrid’s enormous bearded face sticking between the seats; apparently he has squeezed his way all along the row behind, for the first and second years he have just passed have a ruffled, flattened look about them. For some reason, Hagrid is bent double as though anxious not to be seen, though he is still at least four feet taller than everybody else.

Ariana looks on with interest at what’s happening.

“Listen,” he whispers, “can yeh come with me? Now? While ev’ryone’s watchin’ the match?”

“Er . . . can’t it wait, Hagrid?” asks Harry. “Till the match is over?”

“No,” says Hagrid. “No, Harry, it’s gotta be now . . . while ev’ryone’s lookin’ the other way. . . . Please?”

Hagrid’s nose is gently dripping blood. His eyes are both blackened. I have not seen him this close up since his return to the school; he looks utterly woebegone.

“’Course,” says Harry at once, “’course we’ll come . . .”

“Can Ariana come. She knows how to keep a secret.” I say quickly not wanting to abandon my friend— more than friend?

“’Course just come on.” Hagrid grumbles roughly.

Harry, Hermione, Ariana, and I edge back along our row of seats, causing much grumbling among the students who have to stand up for us. The people in Hagrid’s row are not complaining, merely attempting to make themselves as small as possible.

“I ’ppreciate this, you four, I really do,” says Hagrid as we reach the stairs. He keeps looking around nervously as we descend towards the lawn below. “I jus’ hope she doesn’ notice us goin’ . . .”

“You mean Umbridge?” says Harry. “She won’t, she’s got her whole Inquisitorial Squad sitting with her, didn’t you see? She must be expecting trouble at the match.”

“Yeah, well, a bit o’ trouble wouldn’ hurt,” says Hagrid, pausing to peer around the edge of the stands to make sure the stretch of lawn between there and his cabin is deserted. “Give us more time . . .”

“What’s going on Hagrid?” Ariana asks him worriedly. She’s always liked the groundskeeper and that is just one more thing that she has going in her favor if you ask me.

“Yes, what is it, Hagrid?” says Hermione, looking up at him with a concerned expression on her face as we hurry across the lawn towards the edge of the forest.

“Yeh — yeh’ll see in a mo’,” says Hagrid, looking over his shoulder as a great roar rises from the stands behind us. “Hey — did someone jus’ score?”

“It’ll be Ravenclaw,” says Harry heavily.

“Good . . . good . . .” says Hagrid distractedly. “Tha’s good . . .”

We have to jog to keep up with him as he strides across the lawn, looking around with every other step. When we reach his cabin, Hermione turns automatically left towards the front door; Hagrid, however, walks straight past it into the shade of the trees on the outermost edge of the forest, where he picks up a crossbow that is leaning against a tree. When he realizes we are no longer with him, he turns.

“We’re goin’ in here,” he says, jerking his shaggy head behind him.

“Into the forest?” says Hermione, perplexed.

“Please tell me we’re not looking for Aragog. I don’t think that I can handle that again and I’m not Ron.” I say with a shiver.

“We’re not, Yeah,” says Hagrid. “C’mon now, quick, before we’re spotted!”

I turn to look at Ariana who has gone slightly pale at the sight of the forest looming before us.

“You don’t have to come.” I tell her softly, understanding her hesitation. With a shake of her head, Ariana fixes me with her resolved look.

“I’m not letting you go in there without me.” She says bravely but I can hear the quiver in her voice.

Harry, Hermione, and I look at each other, then duck into the cover of the trees along with Ariana behind Hagrid, who is already striding away from us into the green gloom, his crossbow over his arm. We run to catch up with him.

“Hagrid, why are you armed?” says Harry.

“Jus’ a precaution,” says Hagrid, shrugging his massive shoulders.

“You didn’t bring your crossbow the day you showed us the thestrals,” says Hermione timidly.

“Nah, well, we weren’ goin’ in so far then,” says Hagrid. “An’ anyway, tha’ was before Firenze left the forest, wasn’ it?”

“Why does Firenze leaving make a difference?” asks Hermione curiously. I feel a shiver go down my spine at the thought of these woods being even more dangerous to travel around in now.

“’Cause the other centaurs are good an’ riled at me, tha’s why,” says Hagrid quietly, glancing around. “They used ter be — well, yeh couldn’ call ’em friendly — but we got on all righ’. Kept ’emselves to ’emselves, bu’ always turned up if I wanted a word. Not anymore . . .”

He sighs deeply.

“Firenze said that they’re angry because he went to work for Dumbledore?” Harry asks, tripping on a protruding root because he is busy watching Hagrid’s profile.

“Yeah,” says Hagrid heavily. “Well, angry doesn’ cover it. Ruddy livid. If I hadn’ stepped in, I reckon they’d’ve kicked Firenze ter death —”

“They attacked him?” says Hermione, sounding shocked.

“Yep,” says Hagrid gruffly, forcing his way through several low-hanging branches. “He had half the herd onto him —”

“And you stopped it?” says Harry, amazed and impressed. “By yourself?”

“’Course I did, couldn’t stand by an’ watch ’em kill him, could I?” says Hagrid. “Lucky I was passin’, really . . . an’ I’d’ve thought Firenze mighta remembered tha’ before he started sendin’ me stupid warnin’s!” he adds hotly and unexpectedly.

“That very brave and noble of you Hagrid.” I say and Ariana echoes my sentiments.

“Anyway,” he says, breathing a little more heavily than usual, “since then the other centaurs’ve bin livid with me an’ the trouble is, they’ve got a lot of influence in the forest. . . . Cleverest creatures in here . . .”

“Is that why we’re here, Hagrid?” asks Hermione. “The centaurs?”

“Ah no,” says Hagrid, shaking his head dismissively, “no, it’s not them. . . . Well, o’ course, they could complicate the problem, yeah. . . . But yeh’ll see what I mean in a bit . . .”

On this incomprehensible note he falls silent and forges a little ahead, taking one stride for every three of ours, so that we have great trouble keeping up with him.

“Is this what all your adventures are like?” Ariana asks from beside me slightly out of breath.

“No, most of them something or someone is trying to kill us, so I’d call this one pretty tame.” I say after a thought. Ariana’s eyes only widen.

The path is becoming increasingly overgrown and the trees grow so closely together as we walk farther and farther into the forest that it is as dark as dusk. We are soon a long way past the clearing where Hagrid had shown us the thestrals, but I feel no sense of unease until Hagrid steps unexpectedly off the path and begins wending his way in and out of trees towards the dark heart of the forest.

“Hagrid?” says Harry, fighting his way through thickly knotted brambles over which Hagrid stepped easily. “Where are we going?”

“Bit further,” says Hagrid over his shoulder. “C’mon, Harry. . . . We need ter keep together now . . .”

It is a great struggle to keep up with Hagrid, what with branches and thickets of thorn through which Hagrid marches as easily as though they are cobwebs, but which snag Harry, Hermione, Ariana’s, and my robes, frequently entangling us so severely that we have to stop for minutes at a time to free ourselves. My arms and legs are soon covered in small cuts and scratches. We are so deep in the forest now that sometimes all I can see of Hagrid in the gloom is a massive dark shape ahead of me. Any sound seems threatening in the muffled silence. The breaking of a twig echoes loudly and the tiniest rustle of movement, though it may have been made by an innocent sparrow, causes me to peer through the gloom for a culprit. Ariana reaches out for my hand, and I grab it securely not wanting her to get lost. It occurs to me that I have never managed to get this far into the forest without meeting some kind of creature — their absence strikes me as rather ominous.

“Hagrid, would it be all right if we lit our wands?” says Hermione quietly.

“Er . . . all righ’,” Hagrid whispers back. “In fact . . .”

He stops suddenly and turns around; Hermione walks right into him and is knocked over backwards. Harry catches her just before she hits the forest floor.

“Maybe we bes’ jus’ stop fer a momen’, so I can . . . fill yeh in,” says Hagrid. “Before we ge’ there, like.”

“Good!” says Hermione, as Harry sets her back on her feet. The four of us murmur “Lumos!” and our wand-tips ignite. Hagrid’s face swims through the gloom by the light of the four wavering beams and I see that he looks nervous and sad again.

“Righ’,” says Hagrid. “Well . . . see . . . the thing is . . .”

He takes a great breath.

“Well, there’s a good chance I’m goin’ ter be gettin’ the sack any day now,” he says.

“But you’ve lasted this long —” I say tentatively. “What makes you think —”

“Umbridge reckons it was me that put tha’ niffler in her office.”

“And was it?” says Harry, before he can stop himself.

“No, it ruddy well wasn’!” says Hagrid indignantly. “On’y anythin’ ter do with magical creatures an’ she thinks it’s got somethin’ ter do with me. Yeh know she’s bin lookin’ fer a chance ter get rid of me ever since I got back. I don’ wan’ ter go, o’ course, but if it wasn’ fer . . . well . . . the special circumstances I’m abou’ ter explain to yeh, I’d leave righ’ now, before she’s go’ the chance ter do it in front o’ the whole school, like she did with Trelawney.”

Harry, Hermione, and I make noises of protest while Ariana shakes her head, but Hagrid overrides us with a wave of one of his enormous hands.

“It’s not the end o’ the world, I’ll be able ter help Dumbledore once I’m outta here, I can be useful ter the Order. An’ you lot’ll have Grubbly-Plank, yeh’ll — yeh’ll get through yer exams fine . . .” His voice trembles and breaks.

“Don’ worry abou’ me,” he says hastily, as Hermione makes to pat his arm. He pulls his enormous spotted handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and mops his eyes with it. “Look, I wouldn’ be tellin’ yer this at all if I didn’ have ter. See, if I go . . . well, I can’ leave withou’ . . . withou’ tellin’ someone . . . because I’ll — I’ll need you three ter help me. An’ Ron, if he’s willin’.”

“Of course we’ll help you,” says Harry at once. Ariana watches the four of us solemnly; we’ve always been the closest to Hagrid. “What do you want us to do?”

Hagrid gives a great sniff and pats Harry wordlessly on the shoulder with such force that Harry is knocked sideways into a tree.

“I knew yeh’d say yes,” says Hagrid into his handkerchief, “but I won’ . . . never . . . forget . . . Well . . . c’mon . . . jus’ a little bit further through here . . . Watch yerselves, now, there’s nettles . . .”

We walk on in silence for another fifteen minutes. I have opened my mouth to ask how much farther we have to go when Hagrid throws out his right arm to signal that we should stop.

“Really easy,” he says softly. “Very quiet, now . . .”

We creep forward and I see that we are facing a large, smooth mound of earth nearly as tall as Hagrid that I think, with a jolt of dread, is sure to be the lair of some enormous animal. Trees have been ripped up at the roots all around the mound, so that it stands on a bare patch of ground surrounded by heaps of trunks and boughs that form a kind of fence or barricade, behind which Harry, Hermione, Hagrid, Ariana, and I now stand.

“Sleepin’,” breathes Hagrid.

Sure enough, I can hear a distant, rhythmic rumbling that sounds like a pair of enormous lungs at work. I glance sideways at Hermione, who is gazing at the mound with her mouth slightly open. She looks utterly terrified.

“Hagrid,” she says in a whisper barely audible over the sound of the sleeping creature, “who is he?”

I find this an odd question . . . “What is it?” is the one I planned on asking.

“Oh Merlin.” Ariana breathes out, and tightens her grip on my hand.

“Hagrid, you told us,” says Hermione, her wand now shaking in her hand, “you told us none of them wanted to come!”

I look from her to Hagrid to Harry and then, as realization hits me, I look back at the mound with a small gasp of horror.

The great mound of earth, on which we can easily stand, is moving slowly up and down in time with the deep, grunting breathing. It is not a mound at all. It is the curved back of what is clearly . . .

“Well — no — he didn’ want ter come,” says Hagrid, sounding desperate. “But I had ter bring him, Hermione, I had ter!”

“But why?” asks Hermione, who sounds as though she wants to cry. “Why — what — oh, Hagrid!”

“How on earth does Hagrid have a giant?” Ariana asks me soflty.

“It’s a long story… if we survive this I’ll tell you about it later.” I reply faintly.

“I’ll hold you to that Pendragon for I fancy living.” She says.

“I knew if I jus’ got him back,” says Hagrid, sounding close to tears himself, “an’ — an’ taught him a few manners — I’d be able ter take him outside an’ show ev’ryone he’s harmless!”

“Harmless!” says Hermione shrilly, and Hagrid makes frantic hushing noises with his hands as the enormous creature before us grunts loudly and shifts in its sleep.  “He’s been hurting you all this time, hasn’t he? That’s why you’ve had all these injuries!”

“He don’ know his own strength!” says Hagrid earnestly. “An’ he’s gettin’ better, he’s not fightin’ so much anymore —”

“So this is why it took you two months to get home!” says Hermione distractedly.  “Oh Hagrid, why did you bring him back if he didn’t want to come, wouldn’t he have been happier with his own people?”

“They were all bullyin’ him, Hermione, ’cause he’s so small!” says Hagrid.

“Small?” says Hermione. “Small?”

Yeah my friend is definitely starting to freak out here. Not that I’m not too far behind her though.

“Hermione, I couldn’ leave him,” says Hagrid, tears now trickling down his bruised face into his beard. “See — he’s my brother!”

Hermione simply stares at him, her mouth open. I let out a shocked gasp.

“You have a brother?” I say tentatively. Family changes everything.

“Hagrid, when you say ‘brother,’” says Harry slowly, “do you mean — ?”

“Well — half-brother,” amends Hagrid. “Turns out me mother took up with another giant when she left me dad, an’ she went an’ had Grawp here —”

“Grawp?” says Harry and Ariana together.

“Yeah . . . well, tha’s what it sounds like when he says his name,” says Hagrid anxiously. “He don’ speak a lot of English. . . . I’ve bin tryin’ ter teach him. . . . Anyway, she don’ seem ter have liked him much more’n she liked me. . . . See, with giantesses, what counts is producin’ good big kids, and he’s always been a bit on the runty side fer a giant — on’y sixteen foot —”

“Oh yes, tiny!” says Hermione, with a kind of hysterical sarcasm. “Absolutely minuscule!”

“He was bein’ kicked around by all o’ them — I jus’ couldn’ leave him —”

“Did Madame Maxime want to bring him back?” I ask.

“She — well, she could see it was right importan’ ter me,” says Hagrid, twisting his enormous hands. “Bu’ — bu’ she got a bit tired of him after a while, I must admit . . . so we split up on the journey home. . . . She promised not ter tell anyone though . . .”

“How on earth did you get him back without anyone noticing?” says Harry.

“Well, tha’s why it took so long, see,” says Hagrid. “Could on’y travel by nigh’ an’ through wild country an’ stuff. ’Course, he covers the ground pretty well when he wants ter, but he kep’ wantin’ ter go back . . .”

“Oh Hagrid, why on earth didn’t you let him!” says Hermione, flopping down onto a ripped-up tree and burying her face in her hands. “What do you think you’re going to do with a violent giant who doesn’t even want to be here!”

“Well, now — ‘violent’ — tha’s a bit harsh,” says Hagrid, still twisting his hands agitatedly. “I’ll admit he mighta taken a couple o’ swings at me when he’s bin in a bad mood, but he’s gettin’ better, loads better, settlin’ down well . . .”

“What are those ropes for, then?” Harry asks.

He has just noticed ropes thick as saplings stretching from around the trunks of the largest nearby trees toward the place where Grawp lays curled on the ground with his back to us.

“You have to keep him tied up?” says Hermione faintly.

“Well . . . yeah . . .” says Hagrid, looking anxious. “See — it’s like I say — he doesn’ really know his strength —”

I understand now why there has been such a suspicious lack of any other living creature in this part of the forest.

“So what is it you want Harry, Ron, Jamie, and me to do?” Hermione asks apprehensively. I really don’t like where this is going at all, and based on the grip of Ariana’s hand in mine, she doesn’t as well.

“Look after him,” says Hagrid croakily. “After I’m gone.”

Harry, Hermione, and I exchange miserable looks. I hate that Harry promised that we would do whatever he asked.

“What — what does that involve, exactly?” Hermione inquires.

“Not food or anythin’!” says Hagrid eagerly. “He can get his own food, no problem. Birds an’ deer an’ stuff . . . No, it’s company he needs. If I jus’ knew someone was carryin’ on tryin’ ter help him a bit . . . teachin’ him, yeh know . . .”

I say nothing, but turn to look back at the gigantic form lying asleep on the ground in front of us. Grawp has his back to us. Unlike Hagrid, who simply looks like a very oversize human, Grawp looks strangely misshapen. What I had taken to be a vast mossy boulder to the left of the great earthen mound I now recognize as Grawp’s head. It is much larger in proportion to the body than a human head, almost perfectly round and covered with tightly curling, close-growing hair the color of bracken. The rim of a single large, fleshy ear is visible on top of the head, which seems to sit, directly upon the shoulders with little or no neck in between. The back, under what looks like a dirty brownish smock comprised of animal skins sewn roughly together, is very broad, and as Grawp sleeps, it seems to strain a little at the rough seams of the skins. The legs are curled up under the body; I can see the soles of enormous, filthy, bare feet, large as sledges, resting one on top of the other on the earthy forest floor.

He could easily kill all of us in one swing.

“You want us to teach him,” Harry says in a hollow voice. I now understand what Firenze’s warning meant. His attempt is not working. He would do better to abandon it. Of course, the other creatures who lived in the forest would have heard Hagrid’s fruitless attempts to teach Grawp English. . . .

“Yeah — even if yeh jus’ talk ter him a bit,” says Hagrid hopefully. “’Cause I reckon, if he can talk ter people, he’ll understand more that we all like him really, an’ want him to stay . . .”

I look at Hermione, who peers back at me from between the fingers over her face. We then both look at Harry.

“Kind of makes you wish we had Norbert back, doesn’t it?” He says and she gives a very shaky laugh.

“No way that little bugger burned me.” I grumble still sore about that even though it was four years ago. Ariana perks up from beside me.

“I still can’t believe that you were burned by a dragon in your first year Jamie.” Ariana says with a sigh shaking her head.

“Yeh’ll do it, then?” says Hagrid, who does not seem to have caught what Harry has just said.

“We’ll . . .” says Harry, already bound by his promise. “We’ll try, Hagrid . . .”

“I knew I could count on yeh, Harry,” Hagrid says, beaming in a very watery way and dabbing at his face with his handkerchief again. “An’ I don’ wan’ yeh ter put yerself out too much, like. . . . I know yeh’ve got exams. . . . If yeh could jus’ nip down here in yer Invisibility Cloak maybe once a week an’ have a little chat with him . . . I’ll wake him up, then — introduce you —”

“Wha — no!” says Hermione, jumping up, “Hagrid, no, don’t wake him, really, we don’t need —”

But Hagrid has already stepped over the great trunk in front of us and is proceeding towards Grawp. When he is around ten feet away, he lifts a long, broken bough from the ground, smiles reassuringly over his shoulder at us, and then pokes Grawp hard in the middle of the back with the end of the bough.

The giant gives a roar that echoes around the silent forest. Birds in the treetops overhead rise twittering from their perches and soar away. In front of Harry, Hermione, Ariana, and me meanwhile, the gigantic Grawp is rising from the ground, which shudders as he places an enormous hand upon it to push himself onto his knees and turns his head to see who and what disturbed him.

“All righ’, Grawpy?” says Hagrid in a would-be cheery voice, backing away with the long bough raised, ready to poke Grawp again. “Had a nice sleep, eh?”

The four of us of average size retreat as far as we can while still keeping the giant within our sights. Grawp kneels between two trees he has not yet uprooted. We look up into his startlingly huge face, which resembles a gray full moon swimming in the gloom of the clearing. It is as though the features have been hewn onto a great stone ball. The nose is stubby and shapeless, the mouth lopsided and full of misshapen yellow teeth the size of half-bricks. The small eyes are a muddy greenish-brown and just now are half gummed together with sleep. Grawp raises dirty knuckles as big as cricket balls to his eyes, rubs vigorously, then, without warning, pushes himself to his feet with surprising speed and agility.

“Oh my . . .” I hear Hermione squeal, terrified, beside me on my other side.

The trees to which the other ends of the ropes around Grawp’s wrists and ankles are attached creak ominously. He is, as Hagrid said, at least sixteen feet tall. Gazing blearily around, he reaches out a hand the size of a beach umbrella, seizes a bird’s nest from the upper branches of a towering pine and turns it upside down with a roar of apparent displeasure that there is no bird in it — eggs falls like grenades towards the ground and Hagrid throws his arms over his head to protect himself.

“Anyway, Grawpy,” shouts Hagrid, looking up apprehensively in case of further falling eggs, “I’ve brought some friends ter meet yeh. Remember, I told yeh I might? Remember, when I said I might have ter go on a little trip an’ leave them ter look after yeh fer a bit? Remember that, Grawpy?”

But Grawp merely gives another low roar; it is hard to say whether he is listening to Hagrid or whether he even recognizes the sounds Hagrid is making as speech. He has now seized the top of the pine tree and is pulling it towards him, evidently for the simple pleasure of seeing how far it will spring back when he lets go.

“Now, Grawpy, don’ do that!” shouts Hagrid. “Tha’s how you ended up pullin’ up the others —”

And sure enough, I can see the earth around the tree’s roots beginning to crack.

“I got company fer yeh!” Hagrid shouts. “Company, see! Look down, yeh big buffoon, I brought yeh some friends!”

“Oh Hagrid, don’t,” moans Hermione, but Hagrid has already raised the bough again and gives Grawp’s knee a sharp poke. I’m pretty much terrified to silence now, so at least Hermione is able to speak, Ariana has her other hand bunched tightly in my cloak now, holding me to her tightly. I regret ever asking her to come with us now. I’ve probably scarred her for life now.

The giant lets go of the top of the pine tree, which sways menacingly and deluges Hagrid with a rain of needles, and looks down.

“This,” says Hagrid, hastening over to where Harry, Hermione, Ariana, and I stand, “is Harry, Grawp! Harry Potter! He migh’ be comin’ ter visit yeh if I have ter go away, understand?”

The giant has only just realized that we are there. We watch, in great trepidation, as he lowers his huge boulder of a head so that he can peer blearily at us.

“An’ this is Hermione, see? Her —” Hagrid hesitates. Turning to Hermione he says, “Would yeh mind if he called yeh Hermy, Hermione? On’y it’s a difficult name fer him ter remember . . .”

“No, not at all,” squeaks Hermione.

“This is Hermy, Grawp! An’ she’s gonna be comin’ an’ all! The girl nex’ ‘ter her is Jamie, she’s gonna be comin’ as well! Is’n tha’ nice? Eh? Three friends fer yeh ter — GRAWPY, NO!”

Grawp’s hand has shot out of nowhere towards Hermione — Harry and I seize her and pull her backwards behind the tree, so that Grawp’s fist scrapes the trunk but closes on thin air.

“BAD BOY, GRAWPY!” I hear Hagrid yelling, as Hermione clings to Harry behind the tree, shaking and whimpering. “VERY BAD BOY! YEH DON’ GRAB — OUCH!”

I poke my head out from around the trunk and see Hagrid lying on his back, his hand over his nose. Grawp, apparently losing interest, had straightened up again and is again engaged in pulling back the pine as far as it will go.

“I think I’m ready to leave.” Ariana tells me faintly from where she huddled next to Hermione. I can’t help but agree with that thought.

“Righ’,” says Hagrid thickly, getting up with one hand pinching his bleeding nose and the other grasping his crossbow. “Well . . . there yeh are. . . . Yeh’ve met him an’ — an’ now he’ll know yeh when yeh come back. Yeah . . . well . . .”

He looked up at Grawp, who is now pulling back the pine with an expression of detached pleasure on his boulderish face; the roots are creaking as he rips them away from the ground. . . .

“Well, I reckon tha’s enough fer one day,” says Hagrid. “We’ll — er — we’ll go back now, shall we?”

We all nod. Hagrid shoulders his crossbow again and, still pinching his nose, leads the way back into the trees.

Nobody speaks for a while, not even when we hear the distant crash that means Grawp has pulled over the pine tree at last. Hermione’s face is pale and set. I cannot think of a single thing to say.

“Hold it,” says Hagrid abruptly, just as Harry, Hermione, Ariana, and I are struggling through a patch of thick knotgrass behind him. He pulls an arrow out of the quiver over his shoulder and fits it into the crossbow. The four of us raise our wands; now that we have stopped walking, we too can hear movement close by.

“Oh blimey,” says Hagrid quietly.

“I thought that we told you, Hagrid,” says a deep male voice, “that you are no longer welcome here?”

A man’s naked torso seems for an instant to be floating towards us through the dappled green half-light. Then we see that his waist joins smoothly with a horse’s chestnut body. This centaur has a proud, high-cheekboned face and long black hair. Like Hagrid, he is armed: A quiverful of arrows and a long bow were slung over his shoulders.

“How are yeh, Magorian?” says Hagrid warily.

The trees behind the centaur rustle and four or five more emerge behind him.

“So,” the black bodied one says, with a nasty inflection in his voice, before turning immediately to Magorian. “We agreed, I think, what we would do if this human showed his face in the forest again?”

“‘This human’ now, am I?” says Hagrid testily. “Jus’ fer stoppin’ all of yeh committin’ murder?”

“You ought not to have meddled, Hagrid,” says Magorian. “Our ways are not yours, nor are our laws. Firenze has betrayed and dishonored us.”

“I dunno how yeh work that out,” says Hagrid impatiently. “He’s done nothin’ except help Albus Dumbledore —”

“Firenze has entered into servitude to humans,” says a gray centaur with a hard, deeply lined face.

“Servitude!” says Hagrid scathingly. “He’s doin’ Dumbledore a favor is all —”

“He is peddling our knowledge and secrets among humans,” says Magorian quietly. “There can be no return from such disgrace.”

“If yeh say so,” says Hagrid, shrugging, “but personally I think yeh’re makin’ a big mistake —”

“As are you, human,” says the black bodied one again, “coming back into our forest when we warned you —”

“Now, you listen ter me,” says Hagrid angrily. “I’ll have less of the ‘our’ forest, if it’s all the same ter you. It’s not up ter you who comes an’ goes in here —”

“No more is it up to you, Hagrid,” says Magorian smoothly. “I shall let you pass today because you are accompanied by your young —”

“They’re not his!” interrupts the same centaur contemptuously. “Students, Magorian, from up at the school! They have probably already profited from the traitor Firenze’s teachings . . .”

“Nevertheless,” says Magorian calmly, “the slaughter of foals is a terrible crime. . . . We do not touch the innocent. Today, Hagrid, you pass. Henceforth, stay away from this place. You forfeited the friendship of the centaurs when you helped the traitor Firenze escape us.”

“I won’ be kept outta the fores’ by a bunch of mules like you!” says Hagrid loudly.

“Hagrid,” says Hermione in a high-pitched and terrified voice, as both the angry centaur and the gray centaur paw at the ground, “let’s go, please let’s go!”

Hagrid moves forward, but his crossbow is still raised and his eyes are still fixed threateningly upon Magorian.

“We know what you are keeping in the forest, Hagrid!” Magorian calls after them, as the centaurs slip out of sight. “And our tolerance is waning!”

Hagrid turns and gives every appearance of wanting to walk straight back to Magorian again.

“You’ll tolerate him as long as he’s here, it’s as much his forest as yours!” he yells, while Harry, Ariana, Hermione, and I push with all our might against Hagrid’s moleskin waistcoat in an effort to keep him moving forward. Still scowling, he looks down; his expression changes to mild surprise at the sight of us pushing him. He seems not to have felt it.

“Calm down, you four,” he says, turning to walk on while we panted along behind him. “Ruddy old nags though, eh?”

“Hagrid,” says Hermione breathlessly, skirting the patch of nettles we passed on their way there, “if the centaurs don’t want humans in the forest, it doesn’t really look as though Jamie, Harry, and I will be able —”

“Ah, you heard what they said,” says Hagrid dismissively. “They wouldn’t hurt foals — I mean, kids. Anyway, we can’ let ourselves be pushed around by that lot . . .”

“Nice try,” Harry murmurs to Hermione, who looks crestfallen.

At last we rejoin the path and after another ten minutes, the trees begin to thin. We are able to see patches of clear blue sky again and hear, in the distance, the definite sounds of cheering and shouting.

“Was that another goal?” asks Hagrid, pausing in the shelter of the trees as the Quidditch stadium comes into view. “Or d’you reckon the match is over?”

“I don’t know,” says Hermione miserably. I see that she looks much the worse for wear; her hair is full of bits of twig and leaves, her robes are ripped in several places and there are numerous scratches on her face and arms. I know we could look little better.

“I reckon it’s over, yeh know!” says Hagrid, still squinting towards the stadium. “Look — there’s people comin’ out already — if you four hurry yeh’ll be able ter blend in with the crowd an’ no one’ll know you weren’t there!”

“Good idea,” says Harry. “Well . . . see you later, then, Hagrid . . .”

“I don’t believe him,” says Hermione in a very unsteady voice, the moment we are out of earshot of Hagrid. “I don’t believe him. I really don’t believe him . . .”

“Calm down,” says Harry. Ariana finally turns to me for the first time in a while.

“So all your adventures are crazier than that?” She asks plainly. I wince and rub the back of my head.

“Well…” I trail off. Ariana just sighs before squeezing my hand that she never let go of.

“Just promise me that you’ll be safe when you’re out saving the world Jamie.” She pleads.

“Of course.” I promise, before we finally untangle our hands, and rejoin the conversation with Harry and Hermione. Well I join them, Ariana hurries to catch up with some of her friends.

“Calm down!” she says feverishly. “A giant! A giant in the forest! And we’re supposed to give him English lessons! Always assuming, of course, we can get past the herd of murderous centaurs on the way in and out! I — don’t — believe — him!”

“We haven’t got to do anything yet!” Harry tries to reassure her in a quiet voice, as we join a stream of jabbering Hufflepuffs heading back towards the castle. “He’s not asking us to do anything unless he gets chucked out and that might not even happen —”

“Oh come off it, Harry!” says Hermione angrily, stopping dead in her tracks so that the people behind her have to swerve to avoid her. “Of course he’s going to be chucked out and to be perfectly honest, after what we’ve just seen, who can blame Umbridge?”

“I kind of agree with Hermione on this one. A giant and armed centaurs are a little much for us. We’ve never knowingly walked headfirst into danger.” I say with a frown.

There is a pause in which Harry glares at her then me, and Hermione’s eyes fill slowly with tears.

“You didn’t mean that,” says Harry quietly.

“No . . . well . . . all right . . . I didn’t,” she says, wiping her eyes angrily. “But why does he have to make life so difficult for himself — for us?”

“I dunno —”

 

Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He didn’t let the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King . . .

 

“And I wish they’d stop singing that stupid song,” says Hermione miserably, “haven’t they gloated enough?”

A great tide of students is moving up the sloping lawns from the pitch.

“There’s something different about it.” I say slowly, my mind still reeling form all the things that I’ve seen today to catch on completely.

“Oh, let’s get in before we have to meet the Slytherins,” says Hermione.

 

Weasley can save anything,

He never leaves a single ring,

That’s why Gryffindors all sing:

Weasley is our King.

 

“Hermione . . .” says Harry slowly.

The song is growing louder, but it is issuing not from a crowd of green-and-silver-clad Slytherins, but from a mass of red and gold moving slowly towards the castle, which is bearing a solitary figure upon its many shoulders. . . .

 

Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He didn’t let the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King . . .

 

“No!” says Hermione in a hushed voice. I can’t believe it. It looks like Ron actually saved the day.

“YES!” says Harry loudly. I jump for joy completely forgetting the upsetting experience that I’ve just been through.

“HARRY! JAMIE! HERMIONE!” yells Ron, waving the silver Quidditch Cup in the air and looking quite beside himself. “WE DID IT! WE WON!”

We beam up at him as he passes; there is a scrum at the door of the castle and Ron’s head gets rather badly bumped on the lintel, but nobody seems to want to put him down. Still singing, the crowd squeezes itself into the entrance hall and out of sight. Harry, Hermione, and I watch them go, beaming, until the last echoing strains of “Weasley Is Our King” die away. Then we turn to each other, our smiles fading.

“We’ll save our news till tomorrow, shall we?” says Harry.

“Maybe never?” I say hopefully. Hermione and Harry shake their heads at that though.

“Yes, all right,” says Hermione wearily. “I’m not in any hurry . . .”

We climb the steps together. At the front doors we instinctively look back at the Forbidden Forest. I am not sure whether it is his my tired mind or not, but I rather think I see a small cloud of birds erupting into the air over the treetops in the distance, almost as though the tree in which they had been nesting has just been pulled up by the roots.

I’m getting too old for this stuff. I swear.


	27. O.W.L.s.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 27- O.W.L.s.

 

Ron’s euphoria at helping Gryffindor scrape the Quidditch Cup is such that he cannot settle to anything next day. All he wants to do was talk over the match and Harry, Hermione, and I find it very difficult to find an opening in which to mention Grawp — not that we try very hard; none of us is keen to be the one to bring Ron back to reality in quite such a brutal fashion. As it is another fine, warm day, we persuade him to join us in studying under the beech tree on the edge of the lake, where we stand less chance of being overheard than in the common room. Ron is not particularly keen on this idea at first; he is thoroughly enjoying being patted on the back by Gryffindors walking past his chair, not to mention the occasional outbursts of “Weasley Is Our King,” but agrees after a while that some fresh air might do him good.

We spread our books out in the shade of the beech tree and sit down while Ron talks us through his first save of the match for what feels like the dozenth time.

“Well, I mean, I’d already let in that one of Davies’s, so I wasn’t feeling that confident, but I dunno, when Bradley came toward me, just out of nowhere, I thought — you can do this! And I had about a second to decide which way to fly, you know, because he looked like he was aiming for the right goal hoop — my right, obviously, his left — but I had a funny feeling that he was feinting, and so I took the chance and flew left — his right, I mean — and — well — you saw what happened,” he concludes modestly, sweeping his hair back quite unnecessarily so that it looks interestingly windswept and glancing around to see whether the people nearest to us — a bunch of gossiping third-year Hufflepuffs — heard him.

To put it plainly he was beginning to get on my nerves with his constant stream of greatness.

“And then, when Chambers came at me about five minutes later — what?” Ron says, stopping mid-sentence at the look on Harry’s face. “Why are you grinning?”

“I’m not,” says Harry quickly, looking down at his Transfiguration notes and attempting to straighten his face “I’m just glad we won, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” says Ron slowly, savoring the words, “we won. Did you see the look on Chang’s face when Ginny got the Snitch right out from under her nose?”

“I suppose she cried, did she?” says Harry bitterly.

“Well, yeah — more out of temper than anything, though . . .” Ron frowns slightly. “But you saw her chuck her broom away when she got back to the ground, didn’t you?”

“Er —” says Harry.

“Not exactly.” I say twiddling with a piece of grass in my hands.

“Well, actually . . . no, Ron,” says Hermione with a heavy sigh, putting down her book and looking at him apologetically. “As a matter of fact, the only bit of the match Harry and I saw was Davies’s first goal.”

Ron’s carefully ruffled hair seems to wilt with disappointment.

“You didn’t watch?” he says faintly, looking from one of us to the other. “You didn’t see me make any of those saves?”

“Well — no,” says Hermione, stretching out a placatory hand towards him. “But Ron, we didn’t want to leave — we had to!”

“Yeah?” says Ron, whose face is growing rather red. “How come?”

“It was Hagrid,” says Harry. “He decided to tell us why he’s been covered in injuries ever since he got back from the giants. He wanted us to go into the forest with him, we had no choice, you know how he gets. . . . Anyway . . .”

The story is told in five minutes, by the end of which Ron’s indignation has been replaced by a look of total incredulity.

“He brought one back and hid it in the forest?”

“Yep,” says Harry grimly.

“I would have killed to be at that game instead of in that forest again.” I shiver.

“No,” says Ron, as though by saying this he can make it untrue. “No, he can’t have . . .”

“Well, he has,” says Hermione firmly. “Grawp’s about sixteen feet tall, enjoys ripping up twenty-foot pine trees, and knows me,” she snorts, “as Hermy.”

Ron gives a nervous laugh.

“And Hagrid wants us to . . . ?”

“Teach him English, yeah,” I say with a frown.

“He’s lost his mind,” says Ron in an almost awed voice.

“Yes,” says Hermione irritably, turning a page of Intermediate Transfiguration and glaring at a series of diagrams showing an owl turning into a pair of opera glasses.  “Yes, I’m starting to think he has. But unfortunately, he made Harry, Jamie, and me promise.”

“If I have to go take care of that thing you do too Ronald.” I say forcefully with a glare. Ron’s face quickly becomes one of incredulity.

“I don’t have ta for I didn’t promise J— Jamie. Why don’t you have a longer name?” He growls irritated.

“Well, you’re just going to have to break your promise, that’s all,” says Ron firmly after his face off with me. “I mean, come on . . . We’ve got exams and we’re about that far,” he holds up his hand to show thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart, “from being chucked out as it is. And anyway . . . remember Norbert? Remember Aragog? Have we ever come off better for mixing with any of Hagrid’s monster mates?”

“I know, it’s just that — we promised,” says Hermione in a small voice.

Ron smooths his hair flat again, looking preoccupied.

“Well,” he sighs, “Hagrid hasn’t been sacked yet, has he? He’s hung on this long, maybe he’ll hang on till the end of term and we won’t have to go near Grawp at all.”

* * *

The castle grounds are gleaming in the sunlight as though freshly painted; the cloudless sky smiles at itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green lawns ripple occasionally in a gentle breeze: June has arrived, but to the fifth years this means only one thing: Their O.W.L.s are upon us at last. I can’t wait to be done with them and to move on.

Our teachers are no longer setting us homework; lessons are devoted to reviewing those topics our teachers think most likely to come up in the exams. The purposeful, feverish atmosphere drives nearly everything but the O.W.L.s from my mind. Hermione is spending a lot of time muttering to herself and has not laid out any elf clothes for days.

She is not the only person acting oddly as the O.W.L.s draw steadily nearer. Ernie Macmillan has developed an irritating habit of interrogating people about their study habits.

“How many hours d’you think you’re doing a day?” he demands of Harry, Ron, and me as we queue outside Herbology, a manic gleam in his eyes.

“I dunno,” says Ron. “A few . . .”

“More or less than eight?”

“Less, I s’pose,” says Ron, looking slightly alarmed.

“I’m doing eight,” says Ernie, puffing out his chest. “Eight or nine. I’m getting an hour in before breakfast every day. Eight’s my average. I can do ten on a good weekend day. I did nine and a half on Monday. Not so good on Tuesday — only seven and a quarter. Then on Wednesday —”

“Macmillan I swear to Merlin if you open you mouth one more time to talk about the amount of time you’re studying, I’m going to cram six of the skiving snackbox snacks into your mouth, and toss away the other ends.” Ariana snaps. She had been rubbing her temples for the past few minutes, and I assume that he has been going on about this nonstop. People jump back from the force of her outburst. Ariana is usually very kind to everyone.

I am deeply thankful that Professor Sprout ushers us into greenhouse three at that point, forcing Ernie to abandon his recital and stopping Ariana from doing something she’d regret later.

Meanwhile Draco Malfoy has found a different way to induce panic.

“Of course, it’s not what you know,” he is heard to tell Crabbe and Goyle loudly outside Potions a few days before the exams are to start, “it’s who you know. Now, Father’s been friendly with the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority for years — old Griselda Marchbanks — we’ve had her round for dinner and everything . . .”

“Do you think that’s true?” Hermione whispers to Harry, Ron, and me, looking frightened.

“Nothing we can do about it if it is,” says Ron gloomily.

“I don’t think it’s true,” says Neville quietly from behind us. “Because Griselda Marchbanks is a friend of my gran’s, and she’s never mentioned the Malfoys.”

“What’s she like, Neville?” asks Hermione at once. “Is she strict?”

“Bit like Gran, really,” says Neville in a subdued voice.

“Knowing her won’t hurt your chances though, will it?” Ron tells him encouragingly.

“Oh, I don’t think it will make any difference,” says Neville, still more miserably. “Gran’s always telling Professor Marchbanks I’m not as good as my dad. . . . Well . . . you saw what she’s like at St. Mungo’s . . .”

Neville looks fixedly at the floor. Harry, Ron, and Hermione glance at one another, but didn’t know what to say. I pat Neville on the back consolingly. It is the first time that Neville has acknowledged that we met at the Wizarding hospital.

Meanwhile a flourishing black-market trade in aids to concentration, mental agility, and wakefulness has sprung up among the fifth and seventh years. Harry and Ron are much tempted by the bottle of Baruffio’s Brain Elixir offered to them by Ravenclaw sixth year Eddie Carmichael, who swears it is solely responsible for the nine “Outstanding” O.W.L.s he gained the previous summer and is offering the whole pint for a mere twelve Galleons. Ron assures Harry he will reimburse him for his half the moment he leaves Hogwarts and gets a job, but before they can close the deal, Hermione confiscated the bottle from Carmichael and pours the contents down a toilet.

“Hermione, we wanted to buy that!” shouts Ron.

“Don’t be stupid,” she snarls. “You might as well take Harold Dingle’s powdered dragon claw and have done with it.”

“Dingle’s got powdered dragon claw?” says Ron eagerly.

“Not anymore,” says Hermione. “I confiscated that too. None of these things actually works you know —”

“Dragon claw does work!” says Ron. “It’s supposed to be incredible, really gives your brain a boost, you come over all cunning for a few hours — Hermione, let me have a pinch, go on, it can’t hurt —”

“This stuff can,” says Hermione grimly. “I’ve had a look at it, and it’s actually dried doxy droppings.”

“I have officially lost my appetite.” I groan, my stomach curling at the thought of using doxy dropping.

This information takes the edge off Harry and Ron’s desire for brain stimulants.

We receive our examination schedules and details of the procedure for O.W.L.s during our next Transfiguration lesson.

“As you can see,” Professor McGonagall tells the class while we copy down the dates and times of our exams from the blackboard, “your O.W.L.s are spread over two successive weeks. You will sit the theory exams in the mornings and the practice in the afternoons. Your practical Astronomy examination will, of course, take place at night.”

“Now, I must warn you that the most stringent Anti-Cheating Charms have been applied to your examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills are banned from the examination hall, as are Remembralls, Detachable Cribbing Cuffs, and Self-Correcting Ink. Every year, I am afraid to say, seems to harbor at least one student who thinks that he or she can get around the Wizarding Examinations Authority’s rules. I can only hope that it is nobody in Gryffindor. Our new — headmistress” — Professor McGonagall pronounces the word with the same look on her face as is she is contemplating a particularly stubborn bit of dirt — “has asked the Heads of House to tell their students that cheating will be punished most severely — because, of course, your examination results will reflect upon the headmistress’s new regime at the school . . .”

Professor McGonagall gives a tiny sigh. I see the nostrils of her sharp nose flare.

“However, that is no reason not to do your very best. You have your own futures to think about.”

“Please, Professor,” says Hermione, her hand in the air, “when will we find out our results?”

“An owl will be sent to you some time in July,” says Professor McGonagall.

“Excellent,” says Dean Thomas in an audible whisper, “so we don’t have to worry about it till the holidays . . .”

Our first exam, Theory of Charms, is scheduled for Monday morning. Harry and I agreed to test Hermione after lunch on Sunday but regret it almost at once. She is very agitated and keeps snatching the book back from us to check that she had gotten the answer completely right, finally hitting Harry hard on the nose with the sharp edge of Achievements in Charming.

“Why don’t you just do it yourself?” he says firmly, handing the book back to her, his eyes watering.

I am not particularly if at all worried for my Charms exams. This is one of the only subject that I excel at, so I spend more of my time getting ready for the next test.

Meanwhile Ron is reading two years of Charms notes with his fingers in his ears, his lips moving soundlessly; Seamus is lying flat on his back on the floor, reciting the definition of a Substantive Charm, while Dean checks it against The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5; and Parvati and Lavender, who are practicing basic locomotion charms, are making their pencil cases race each other around the edge of the table.

Dinner is a subdued affair that night. Harry, Ron, and I don’t talk much, but eat with gusto, having studied hard all day. Hermione on the other hand keeps putting down her knife and fork and diving under the table for her bag, from which she seizes a book to check some fact or figure. Ron is just telling her that she ought to eat a decent meal or she will not sleep that night, when her fork slides from her limp fingers and lands with a loud tinkle on her plate.

“Oh, my goodness,” she says faintly, staring into the entrance hall. “Is that them? Is that the examiners?”

Harry and Ron whip around on their bench, and I stare silently. Through the doors to the Great Hall we can see Umbridge standing with a small group of ancient-looking witches and wizards. Umbridge, I am pleased to see, looks rather nervous.

“Shall we go and have a closer look?” says Ron. I can’t help but grin at that.

Harry and Hermione nod and the four of us hasten towards the double doors into the entrance hall, slowing down as we step over the threshold to walk sedately past the examiners. I think Professor Marchbanks must be the tiny, stooped witch with a face so lined it looks as though it has been draped in cobwebs; Umbridge is speaking to her very deferentially. Professor Marchbanks seems to be a little deaf; she is answering Umbridge very loudly considering that they are only a foot apart.

“Journey was fine, journey was fine, we’ve made it plenty of times before!” she says impatiently. “Now, I haven’t heard from Dumbledore lately!” she adds, peering around the hall as though hopeful he might suddenly emerge from a broom cupboard. “No idea where he is, I suppose?”

“None at all,” says Umbridge, shooting a malevolent look at Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, who are now dawdling around the foot of the stairs as Ron pretends to do up his shoelace. “But I daresay the Ministry of Magic will track him down soon enough . . .”

“I doubt it,” shouts tiny Professor Marchbanks, “not if Dumbledore doesn’t want to be found! I should know. . . . Examined him personally in Transfiguration and Charms when he did N.E.W.T.s . . . Did things with a wand I’d never seen before . . .”

“Yes . . . well . . .” says Professor Umbridge as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I drag our feet up the marble staircase as slowly as we dare, “let me show you to the staffroom . . . I daresay you’d like a cup of tea after your journey . . .”

It is an uncomfortable sort of an evening. Everyone is trying to do some last-minute studying but nobody seems to be getting very far. Hermione and I turn in early to go to bed. My head is so run down with information that I can hardly think about anything else.

Ginny follows us up the stairs to make sure that we don’t hurt ourselves for Hermione actually walked into a wall. She’s been up and studying harder than any of us.

None of the fifth years talk very much at breakfast next day either. Parvati is practicing incantations under her breath while the salt cellar in front of her twitches, Hermione is rereading Achievement in Charming so fast that her eyes appear blurred, and Neville keeps dropping his knife and fork and knocking over the marmalade.

Once breakfast is over, the fifth and seventh years mill around in the entrance hall while the other students go off to lessons. Then, at half-past nine, we are called forward class by class to reenter the Great Hall. The four House tables have been removed and replaced instead with many tables for one, all facing the staff-table end of the Hall where Professor McGonagall stands facing us. When we are all seated and quiet she says, “You may begin,” and turns over an enormous hourglass on the desk beside her, on which are also spare quills, ink bottles, and rolls of parchment.

I turn over my paper, my heart thumping hard. . . . Three rows to my right and four seats ahead, Hermione is already scribbling. . . . I lower my eyes to the first question: a) Give the incantation, and b) describe the wand movement required to make objects fly. . . .

I can’t help but remember Harry saving me from the troll hanging me upside down first year. This is going to be a piece of cake…

* * *

“Well, it wasn’t too bad, was it?” asks Hermione anxiously in the entrance hall two hours later, still clutching the exam paper. “I’m not sure I did myself justice on Cheering Charms, I just ran out of time — did you put in the countercharm for hiccups? I wasn’t sure whether I ought to, it felt like too much — and on question twenty-three —”

“Hermione,” says Ron sternly, “we’ve been through this before. . . . We’re not going through every exam afterward, it’s bad enough doing them once.”

“Relax. I’m sure you did great.” I tell her. I glance over to my left seeing Ariana and Luka talking together quietly. A small pang of jealousy goes through me, but at that moment the blond girl looks up, and catches me staring. The happy smile that comes over her face is enough to put all worries to rest.

The fifth years eat lunch with the rest of the school (the four House tables reappear over the lunch hour) and then troop off into the small chamber beside the Great Hall, where we are to wait until called for our practical examination. As small groups of students are called forward in alphabetical order, those left behind mutter incantations and practice wand movements, occasionally poking one another in the back or eye by mistake.

Hermione’s name is called. Trembling, she leaves the chamber with Anthony Goldstein, Gregory Goyle, and Daphne Greengrass. Students who have already been tested do not return afterwards, so Harry, Ron, and I have no idea how Hermione did.

“She’ll be fine — remember she got a hundred and twelve percent on one of our Charms tests?” says Ron.

Ten minutes later, Professor Flitwick calls, “Parkinson, Pansy — Patil, Padma — Patil, Parvati — Pendragon, Jamie, Luka — Potter, Harry.”

“Good luck,” says Ron quietly. Harry and I walk into the Great Hall, clutching our wands.

Flitwick directs the six of us to open testing witches and wizards. I stop next to mine who’s stern facial expressions could rival that of Professor McGonagall. “Just because you’re a Pendragon doesn’t mean that I’m going to go easy on you.” She scowls. I bite my lip to keep myself from making an ill-advised comment.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I say simply. I see Malfoy drop the glass he was levitating out of the corner of my eye.

“Let’s start with the Levitation Charm and work our way from there.” She says. I’m pretty sure that I shocked my examiner though with my perfect execution of all the Charms that she threw at me: Levitation, Color-Change, Growth, and even some that we haven’t learned yet.

By the end of my testing, I think that she had something akin to grudging respect for me. “Not bad Pendragon, not bad at all.” She murmurs making some final notes on her form.

There is no time to relax that night — we go straight to the common room after dinner and submerged ourselves in studying for Transfiguration next day.

I forgot the definition of a Switching Spell during my written exam next morning, but I think my practical could have gone a lot worse. At least I managed to vanish the whole of my iguana, whereas poor Hannah Abbott loses her head completely at the next table and somehow manages to multiply her ferret into a flock of flamingos, causing the examination to be halted for ten minutes while the birds are captured and carried out of the Hall.

We have our Herbology exam on Wednesday which I felt good about having studied furiously with Ariana and Neville for and then, on Thursday, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Here, I feel sure I have passed. I have no problem with any of the written questions and take particular pleasure, during the practical examination, in performing all the counterjinxes and defensive spells right in front of Umbridge, who is watching coolly from near the doors into the entrance hall.

When my examiner tells me that I can leave I run up to Harry who had finished a few minutes before me and was waiting for me. I throw my arms around him in a tight hug. “Thanks for the O.W.L. Harry.” I grin happily. Harry returns my grin with a huge smile at that.

On Friday, Harry, Ron, and I have a day off while Hermione sits her Ancient Runes exam, and as we have the whole weekend in front of us, we permit ourselves a break from studying. We stretch and yawn beside the open window, through which warm summer air wafts over us as Harry and Ron play a desultory game of wizard chess, and I draw happily in my sketchbook. I can see Hagrid in the distance, teaching a class on the edge of the forest. I am trying to guess what creatures they were examining — I thought it must be unicorns, because the boys seem to be standing back a little — when the portrait hole opens and Hermione clambers in, looking thoroughly bad tempered.

“How were the runes?” says Ron, yawning and stretching.

“I mistranslated ‘ehwaz,’” says Hermione furiously. “It means ‘partnership,’ not ‘defense,’ I mixed it up with ‘eihwaz.’”

“Oh well, common mistake?” I say trying to fend off an explosion from the girl.

“Ah well,” says Ron lazily, “that’s only one mistake, isn’t it, you’ll still get —”

“Oh shut up you two,” says Hermione angrily, “it could be the one mistake that makes the difference between a pass and a fail. And what’s more, someone’s put another niffler in Umbridge’s office, I don’t know how they got it through that new door, but I just walked past there and Umbridge is shrieking her head off — by the sound of it, it tried to take a chunk out of her leg —”

“Good,” say Harry, Ron, and I together.

“It is not good!” says Hermione hotly. “She thinks it’s Hagrid doing it, remember? And we do not want Hagrid chucked out!”

“He’s teaching at the moment, she can’t blame him,” says Harry, gesturing out of the window.

“Oh, you’re so naive sometimes, Harry, you really think Umbridge will wait for proof?” says Hermione, who seems determined to be in a towering temper, and she sweeps off toward the girls’ dormitories, banging the door behind her.

“Such a lovely, sweet-tempered girl,” says Ron, very quietly, prodding his queen forwards so that she can begin beating up one of Harry’s knights.

“She’s your roommate Jamie, go talk to her.” Harry says, looking down at his thrashed knight.

“No way, I’ve lived with Hermione for five years now, when she’s in a mood like this, the best thing to do is duck and cover.” I shiver, remembering the time she threw a hairbrush at me.

Hermione’s bad mood persists for most of the weekend, though Harry, Ron, and I find it quite easy to ignore as we spend most of Saturday and Sunday studying for Potions on Monday, the exam to which I am looking forward least. Sure enough, I found the written exam difficult, though I think I might have got full marks on the question about Polyjuice Potion: I can describe its effects extremely accurately, having seen Harry and Ron take it in second year.

The afternoon practical is not as dreadful as I expected it to be. With Snape absent from the proceedings I find that I am much more relaxed than I usually am while making potions. Neville, who is sitting very near me, also looks happier than I have ever seen him during a Potions class along with Harry. When Professor Marchbanks says, “Step away from your cauldrons, please, the examination is over,” I cork my sample flask feeling that I may not have achieved a good grade but that I have, with luck, avoided a fail.

“Only four exams left,” says Parvati Patil wearily as we head back to Gryffindor common room.

“Only!” says Hermione snappishly. “I’ve got Arithmancy and it’s probably the toughest subject there is!”

Nobody is foolish enough to snap back, so she is unable to vent her spleen on any of us and is reduced to telling off some first years for giggling too loudly in the common room.

I can’t wait till exams are over and we get the real Hermione back.

I am determined to perform well in Tuesday’s Care of Magical Creatures exam so as not to let Hagrid down. The practical examination takes place in the afternoon on the lawn on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where students are required to correctly identify the knarl hidden among a dozen hedgehogs (the trick is to offer them all milk in turn: knarls, highly suspicious creatures whose quills have many magical properties, generally go berserk at what they see as an attempt to poison them); then demonstrate correct handling of a bowtruckle, feed and clean a fire-crab without sustaining serious burns, and choose, from a wide selection of food, the diet we would give a sick unicorn.

I loved this exam for I love Care of Magical Creatures. Maybe I can convince McGonagall to let me continue taking this class after this year.

I can see Hagrid watching anxiously out of his cabin window. When my examiner, a plump little witch this time, smiles at me and tells me I can leave, I give Hagrid a fleeting thumbs-up with a wave before heading back up to the castle.

The Astronomy theory exam on Wednesday morning goes well enough; I’m pretty sure that I didn’t get all of the names of some of the moons right, but I am at least confident that none of them is inhabited by mice. We have to wait until evening for our practical Astronomy; the afternoon is devoted instead to Divination.

That is the one subject that I feel most strongly on that I’m going to fail. As much as I can fool Trelawney into thinking that I’m a great potential seer there’s no help for me on an actual regulated examination.

“Well, we were always going to fail that one,” says Ron gloomily as we ascend the marble staircase. He had just made Harry and me feel rather better by telling us how he told the examiner in detail about the ugly man with a wart on his nose in his crystal ball, only to look up and realize he was describing his examiner’s reflection.

“We shouldn’t have taken the stupid subject in the first place,” says Harry.

“At least I managed not to die or fall into a volcano this time through prediction wise.” I say faux cheerfully.

“Still, at least we can give it up now.”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “No more pretending we care what happens when Jupiter and Uranus get too friendly . . .”

“Thank Merlin for that.” I say happily, I never want to step foot in another Divination class again.

“And from now on, I don’t care if my tea leaves spell die, Ron, die — I’m just chucking them in the bin where they belong.”

Harry and I laugh just as Hermione comes running up behind us. We stop laughing at once, in case it annoys her.

“Well, I think I’ve done all right in Arithmancy,” she says, and Harry, Ron, and I sigh with relief. Its hard dealing with an angry Hermione for this long. “Just time for a quick look over our star charts before dinner, then . . .”

When we reach the top of the Astronomy Tower at eleven o’clock we find a perfect night for stargazing, cloudless and still. The grounds are bathed in silvery moonlight, and there is a slight chill in the air. Each of us set up our telescopes and, when Professor Marchbanks gives the word, proceed to fill in the blank star chart we have been given.

This is by far one of the most relaxing exams that I’ve had to endure in the past two weeks.

Professors Marchbanks and Tofty stroll among us, watching as we enter the precise positions of the stars and planets we are observing. All is quiet except for the rustle of parchment, the occasional creak of a telescope as it is adjusted on its stand, and the scribbling of many quills. Half an hour passes, then an hour; the little squares of reflected gold light flickering on the ground below start to vanish as lights in the castle windows are extinguished.

As I complete the constellation Orion on my chart, however, the front doors of the castle open directly below the parapet where I am standing, so that light spills down the stone steps a little way across the lawn. I glance down as I make a slight adjustment to the position of my telescope and see five or six elongated shadows moving over the brightly lit grass before the doors swing shut and the lawn becomes a sea of darkness once more.

That’s weird.

I put my eye back to my telescope and refocus it, now examining Mercury. I look down at my chart to enter the planet there, but something distracts me. Pausing with my quill suspended over the parchment, I squint down into the shadowy grounds and see half a dozen figures walking over the lawn. If they had not been moving, and the moonlight had not been gilding the tops of their heads, they would have been indistinguishable from the dark ground on which they stood. Even at this distance, I have a funny feeling that I recognized the walk of the squattest among them, who seems to be leading the group.

That can’t be good.

I cannot think why Umbridge would be taking a stroll outside past midnight, much less accompanied by five others. Then somebody coughs behind me, and I remember that I am halfway through an exam. I have quite forgotten Mercury’s position — jamming my eye to my telescope, he find it again and was again and enter it on my chart. I ignore the gloating sound of a loud knock, or the baying of a large dog.

Several of the people around me duck out from behind their telescopes and peer instead in the direction of Hagrid’s cabin.

Professor Tofty gives another dry little cough.

“Try and concentrate, now, boys and girls,” he says softly.

Most people return to their telescopes. I look to my left. Hermione is gazing transfixed at Hagrid’s.

“Ahem — twenty minutes to go,” says Professor Tofty.

Hermione jumps and returns at once to her star chart; I look down at my own and noticed that I have mislabeled Venus as Mars. I bend to correct it.

There is a loud BANG from the grounds. Several people say “Ouch!” as they poke themselves in the face with the ends of their telescopes, hastening to see what is going on below.

Hagrid’s door has burst open and by the light flooding out of the cabin we see him quite clearly, a massive figure roaring and brandishing his fists, surrounded by six people, all of whom, judging by the tiny threads of red light they are casting in his direction, seem to be attempting to Stun him.

“No!” cries Hermione.

“My dear!” says Professor Tofty in a scandalized voice. “This is an examination!”

But nobody is paying the slightest attention to their star charts anymore: Jets of red light are still flying beside Hagrid’s cabin, yet somehow they seem to be bouncing off him. He is still upright and still, as far as I can see, fighting. Cries and yells echo across the grounds; a man yells, “Be reasonable, Hagrid!” and Hagrid roars,  “Reasonable be damned, yeh won’ take me like this, Dawlish!”

I can see the tiny outline of Fang, attempting to defend Hagrid, leaping at the wizards surrounding him until a Stunning Spell catches him and he falls to the ground. Hagrid gives a howl of fury, lifts the culprit bodily from the ground, and throws him: The man flies what looks like ten feet and does not get up again.  Hermione gasps, both hands over her mouth; I look around at Ron and Harry and saw that they too are looking scared. None of us have ever seen Hagrid in a real temper before. . . .

“Look!” squeals Parvati, who is leaning over the parapet and pointing to the foot of the castle where the front doors seem to have opened again; more light has spilled out onto the dark lawn and a single long black shadow is now rippling across the lawn.

“Now, really!” says Professor Tofty anxiously. “Only sixteen minutes left, you know!”

But nobody pays him the slightest attention: We are watching the person now sprinting towards the battle beside Hagrid’s cabin.

“How dare you!” the figure shouts as she runs. “How dare you!”

“It’s McGonagall!” I whisper.

“Leave him alone! Alone, I say!” says Professor McGonagall’s voice through the darkness. “On what grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing, nothing to warrant such —”

Hermione, Parvati, and Lavender all scream, and I gasp. No fewer than four Stunners have shot from the figures around the cabin towards Professor McGonagall. Halfway between cabin and castle the red beams collide with her. For a moment she looks luminous, illuminated by an eerie red glow, then is lifted right off her feet, lands hard on her back, and moves no more.

“Galloping gargoyles!” shouts Professor Tofty, who seems to have forgotten the exam completely. “Not so much as a warning! Outrageous behavior!”

“COWARDS!” bellows Hagrid, his voice carrying clearly to the top of the tower, and several lights flicker back on inside the castle. “RUDDY COWARDS! HAVE SOME O’ THAT — AN’ THAT —”

“Oh my —” gasps Hermione. This is unbelievable.

Hagrid takes two massive swipes at his closest attackers; judging by their immediate collapse, they have been knocked cold. I see him double over and think for a moment that he has finally been overcome by a spell, but on the contrary, next moment Hagrid is standing again with what appears to be a sack on his back — then I realize that Fang’s limp body is draped around his shoulders.

“Get him, get him!” screams Umbridge, but her remaining helper seems highly reluctant to go within reach of Hagrid’s fists. Indeed, he is backing away so fast he trips over one of his unconscious colleagues and falls over. Hagrid has turned and begins to run with Fang still hung around his neck; Umbridge sends one last Stunning Spell after him but it misses, and Hagrid, running full-pelt towards the distant gates, disappears into the darkness.

There is a long minute’s quivering silence, everybody gazing openmouthed into the grounds. Then Professor Tofty’s voice says feebly, “Um . . . five minutes to go, everybody . . .”

Though I filled in most of my chart, I am desperate for the end of the exam. When it comes at last Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I force our telescopes haphazardly back into their holders and dash back down the spiral staircase. None of the students are going to bed — we are all talking loudly and excitedly at the foot of the stairs about what we have witnessed.

“That evil woman!” gasps Hermione, who seems to be having difficulty talking due to rage. “Trying to sneak up on Hagrid in the dead of night!”

My hands are quivering with pent up magic and anger, but when a warm hand takes mine, slowly the emotions start to die down. I look over at Ariana and see the emotions boiling in her eye, anger, hurt, and grief and the strongest. I squeeze her hand tighter as a lifeline.

“She clearly wanted to avoid another scene like Trelawney’s,” says Ernie Macmillan sagely, squeezing over to join us.

“Hagrid did well, didn’t he?” says Ron, who looks more alarmed than impressed. “How come all the spells bounced off him?”

“It’ll be his giant blood,” says Hermione shakily. “It’s very hard to Stun a giant, they’re like trolls, really tough. . . . But poor Professor McGonagall. . . . Four Stunners straight in the chest, and she’s not exactly young, is she?”

“Dreadful, dreadful,” says Ernie, shaking his head pompously. “Well, I’m off to bed . . . ’Night, all . . .”

People around us are drifting away, still talking excitedly about what they have just seen. Ariana turns to me after a moment. “I have to be getting back… you all right?” She asks me softly.

I nod my head tersely, and throw my arms around the girl quickly before I can think about what I’m doing. She returns the hug with equal strength and emotion. “I know… me too.” She whispers, before releasing me and disappearing around the corner.

“At least they didn’t get to take Hagrid off to Azkaban,” says Ron. “I ’spect he’s gone to join Dumbledore, hasn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” says Hermione, who looks tearful. “Oh, this is awful, I really thought Dumbledore would be back before long, but now we’ve lost Hagrid too . . .”

We traipse back to the Gryffindor common room to find it full. The commotion out in the grounds has woken several people, who have hastened to rouse their friends.  Seamus and Dean, who have arrived ahead of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, are now telling everyone what they heard from the top of the Astronomy Tower.

“But why sack Hagrid now?” asks Angelina Johnson, shaking her head. “It’s not like Trelawney, he’s been teaching much better than usual this year!”

“Umbridge hates part-humans,” says Hermione bitterly, flopping down into an armchair. “She was always going to try and get Hagrid out.”

“I would know she keeps trying to suggest that I’m one.” I mumble mutinously. Ginny squeezes over to my side and leans her head against my shoulder. She has faint tear tracks on her face. She must have been crying.

“I’m going to miss Hagrid.” She says softly. I swallow the lump that’s taken residence in my throat.

“Me too.” I tell her.

“And she thought Hagrid was putting nifflers in her office,” pipes up Katie Bell.

“Oh blimey,” says Lee Jordan, covering his mouth. “It’s me’s been putting the nifflers in her office, Fred and George left me a couple, I’ve been levitating them in through her window . . .”

“She’d have sacked him anyway,” says Dean. “He was too close to Dumbledore.”

“That’s true,” says Harry, sinking into an armchair beside Hermione’s.

“I just hope Professor McGonagall’s all right,” says Lavender tearfully. I bite my lip hard thinking about the stern Transfiguration professor who’s been so nice to me lately.

“They carried her back up to the castle, we watched through the dormitory window,” says Colin Creevey. “She didn’t look very well . . .”

“Madam Pomfrey will sort her out,” says Alicia Spinnet firmly. “She’s never failed yet.”

It is nearly four in the morning before the common room clears, and I guide Ginny and Hermione back up to our dorms. Ginny gets tearful and refuses to go to sleep, so with a sigh, I come back down to the common room with her, and we curl up on the couch together in front of the fire. Its not like I was going to get any sleep in the first place.

I kill the hours by stroking my sister’s hair as she sleeps with her head propped in my lap. Ginny may seem strong to most people, but I know that there’s a soft part in her that’s terrified of losing people. If I can help her through a night after something as horrible as this, then I will.

Our final exam, History of Magic, is not to take place until that afternoon. I would very much like to go to sleep after breakfast, but I was counting on the morning for a spot of last-minute studying, so instead I sit with Harry his head in his hands by the common room window, trying hard not to doze off as we read through some of the notes stacked three-and-a-half feet high that Hermione lent us.

The fifth years enter the Great Hall at two o’clock and take their places in front of their overturned examination papers. I feel exhausted. I just want this to be over so that I can go and sleep. Then tomorrow, Harry, Ron, and I are going to go down to the Quidditch pitch — Harry and I are going to have a fly on Ron’s broom and savor our freedom from studying. . . .

That will be what gets me through this exam I swear.

“Turn over your papers,” says Professor Marchbanks from the front of the Hall, flicking over the giant hourglass. “You may begin . . .”

This by far is the most tedious and mind numbing exam to date.

_In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute to, or lead to better control of, goblin riots of the eighteenth century?_

_How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1749 and what measures were introduced to prevent a recurrence?_

_Describe the circumstances that led to the Formation of the International Confederation of Wizards and explain why the warlocks of Liechtenstein refused to join._

_. . . the first Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was Pierre Bonaccord, but his appointment was contested by the Wizarding community of Liechtenstein, because —_

I’m distracted from the sheer amount of factual questions by one of the last things that I would ever have expected during an exam. Harry sitting only a few desks in front of me falls out of his chair onto the ground, before waking up yelling while holding his hands to the scar on his forehead. With that the Great Hall erupts all around us.

This can’t be good at all.


	28. Out of the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 28- Out of the Fire

 

“I’m not going. . . . I don’t need the hospital wing. . . . I don’t want . . .”

He is gibbering, trying to pull away from Professor Tofty, who is looking at him with much concern, and who has just helped Harry out into the entrance hall while the students all around us stared.

“I’m — I’m fine, sir,” Harry stammers, wiping the sweat from his face. “Really . . . I just fell asleep. . . . Had a nightmare . . .”

“Pressure of examinations!” says the old wizard sympathetically, patting Harry shakily on the shoulder. “It happens, young man, it happens! Now, a cooling drink of water, and perhaps you will be ready to return to the Great Hall? The examination is nearly over, but you may be able to round off your last answer nicely?”

“Yes,” says Harry wildly. “I mean . . . no . . . I’ve done — done as much as I can, I think . . .”

“Very well, very well,” says the old wizard gently. “I shall go and collect your examination paper, and I suggest that you go and have a nice lie down . . .”

“I’ll do that,” says Harry, nodding vigorously. “Thanks very much.”

Professor Tofty comes back into the hall closing the doors behind him once again. “Back to work everyone, Mr. Potter will be fine.” He says calmly, and grudgingly everyone goes back to their tests.

The last ten minutes of the exam are tedious but I manage to barely finish my paper. As soon as they’re collected, Hermione, Ron, and I are off like a rocket flying out of the room, needing to find Harry and find out what exactly is going on. When we get to the stairs, Harry is suddenly storming down them at us.

“Harry!” says Hermione at once, looking very frightened. “What happened? Are you all right? Are you ill?”

“Where have you been?” demands Ron.

“You feel out of your seat… are you hurt?” I ask.

“Come with me,” Harry says quickly. “Come on, I’ve got to tell you something . . .”

He leads us along the first-floor corridor, peering through doorways, and at last finds an empty classroom into which he dives, closing the door behind Ron, Hermione, and me the moment we are inside and leans against it, facing us.

“Voldemort’s got Sirius.”

“What?”

“How d’you — ?”

“Seriously?”

“Saw it. Just now. When I fell asleep in the exam.” Harry huffs out.

“But — but where? How?” says Hermione, whose face is white.

“I dunno how,” says Harry. “But I know exactly where. There’s a room in the Department of Mysteries full of shelves covered in these little glass balls, and they’re at the end of row ninety-seven . . . He’s trying to use Sirius to get whatever it is he wants from in there. . . . He’s torturing him. . . . Says he’ll end by killing him . . .”

Harry’s voice is shaking, as are his knees. He moves over to a desk and sits down on it, trying to master himself.

“How’re we going to get there?” he asks us.

There is a moment’s silence. Then Ron says, “G-get there?”

“Get to the Department of Mysteries, so we can rescue Sirius!” Harry says loudly.

“But — Harry . . .” says Ron weakly.

“What? What?” says Harry.

“How can you be sure that Voldemort doesn’t want you to see this?” I demand, taking shaky breaths.

“Harry,” says Hermione in a rather frightened voice, “er . . . how . . . how did Voldemort get into the Ministry of Magic without anybody realizing he was there?”

“How do I know?” bellows Harry. “The question is how we’re going to get in there!”

“But . . . Harry, think about this,” says Hermione, taking a step towards him, “it’s five o’clock in the afternoon. . . . The Ministry of Magic must be full of workers. . . . How would Voldemort and Sirius have got in without being seen? Harry . . . they’re probably the two most wanted wizards in the world. . . . You think they could get into a building full of Aurors undetected?”

“I dunno, Voldemort used an Invisibility Cloak or something!” Harry shouts.  “Anyway, the Department of Mysteries has always been completely empty whenever I’ve been —”

“You’ve never been there, Harry,” says Hermione quietly. “You’ve dreamed about the place, that’s all.”

I stare at my friend worriedly. I don’t want anything to happen to him, but he’s beginning to sound a little crazy.

“They’re not normal dreams!” Harry shouts in her face, standing up and taking a step closer to her in turn. “How d’you explain Ron’s dad then, what was all that about, how come I knew what had happened to him?”

“He’s got a point,” says Ron quietly, looking at Hermione.

“But this is just — just so unlikely!” says Hermione desperately. “Harry, how on earth could Voldemort have got hold of Sirius when he’s been in Grimmauld Place all the time?”

“Sirius might’ve cracked and just wanted some fresh air,” says Ron, sounding worried. “He’s been desperate to get out of that house for ages —”

“I think you’re being tricked Harry. Sirius wouldn’t jeopardize his own life for something as silly as fresh air. Voldemort is using the idea of Sirius for he knows that he’s the closest to you outside of Hogwarts.” I say seriously. Harry glares at me.

“You would throw away Sirius’ life on a thought? He’s all that I have left Jamie, I don’t have a family like you do!” Harry yells at me. I clamp my jaw shut and advert my gaze from him.

“You know what, I’ve just thought of something,” says Ron in a hushed voice breaking the tension. “Sirius’s brother was a Death Eater, wasn’t he? Maybe he told Sirius the secret of how to get the weapon!”

“Yeah — and that’s why Dumbledore’s been so keen to keep Sirius locked up all the time!” says Harry.

“Look, I’m sorry,” cries Hermione, “but neither of you are making sense, and we’ve got no proof for any of this, no proof Voldemort and Sirius are even there —”

“Hermione, Harry’s seen them!” says Ron, rounding on her.

“Okay,” she says, looking frightened yet determined, “I’ve just got to say this . . .”

“What?”

“You . . . This isn’t a criticism, Harry! But you do . . . sort of . . . I mean — don’t you think you’ve got a bit of a — a — saving-people-thing?” she says.

He glares at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean, a ‘saving-people-thing’?”

“Well . . . you . . .” She looks more apprehensive than ever. “I mean . . . last year, for instance . . . in the lake . . . during the Tournament . . . you shouldn’t have . . . I mean, you didn’t need to save that little Delacour girl. . . . You got a bit . . . carried away . . .”

“. . . I mean, it was really great of you and everything,” says Hermione quickly, looking positively petrified at the look on Harry’s face. “Everyone thought it was a wonderful thing to do —”

“That’s funny,” says Harry in a trembling voice, “because I definitely remember Ron saying I’d wasted time acting the hero. . . . Is that what you think this is? You reckon I want to act the hero again?”

“No, no, no!” said Hermione, looking aghast. “That’s not what I mean at all!”

“Well, spit out what you’ve got to say, because we’re wasting time here!” Harry shouts.

“I’m trying to say is that Jamie is right — Voldemort knows you, Harry! He took Ginny down into the Chamber of Secrets to lure you there, it’s the kind of thing he does, he knows you’re the — the sort of person who’d go to Sirius’s aid! What if he’s just trying to get you into the Department of Myst — ?”

“Hermione, it doesn’t matter if he’s done it to get me there or not — they’ve taken McGonagall to St. Mungo’s, there isn’t anyone left from the Order at Hogwarts who we can tell, and if we don’t go, Sirius is dead!”

“But Harry — what if your dream was — was just that, a dream?” I push.

Harry lets out a roar of frustration. Hermione actually steps back from him, looking alarmed. I just cross my arms at him leveling him with a harsh glare.

“You don’t get it!” Harry shouts at her. “I’m not having nightmares, I’m not just dreaming! What d’you think all the Occlumency was for, why d’you think Dumbledore wanted me prevented from seeing these things? Because they’re REAL, Hermione — Sirius is trapped — I’ve seen him — Voldemort’s got him, and no one else knows, and that means we’re the only ones who can save him, and if you don’t want to do it, fine, but I’m going, understand? And if I remember rightly, you didn’t have a problem with my saving-people-thing when it was you I was saving from the dementors, or” — he rounds on Ron — “when it was your sister I was saving from the basilisk —”

Harry turns his furious gaze on me. “Or when I saved you from Quirrell.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not going to guilt me into this Harry. I know that you’ve protected us all a lot.” I tell him. That just intensifies the look of anger on his face.

“I never said I had a problem!” says Ron heatedly.

“But Harry, you’ve just said it,” says Hermione fiercely. “Dumbledore wanted you to learn to shut these things out of your mind, if you’d done Occlumency properly you’d never have seen this —”

“IF YOU THINK I’M JUST GOING TO ACT LIKE I HAVEN’T SEEN —”

“Sirius told you there was nothing more important than you learning to close your mind!”

“WELL, I EXPECT HE’D SAY SOMETHING DIFFERENT IF HE KNEW WHAT I’D JUST —”

The classroom door opens. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I whip around. Ginny walks in, looking curious, followed by Luna, who as usual looks as though she has drifted in accidentally.

“Hi,” says Ginny uncertainly. “We recognized Harry’s voice — what are you yelling about?”

“Never you mind,” says Harry roughly.

“Don’t speak to my sister that way.” I snap at him.

Ginny raises her eyebrows.

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” she says coolly. “I was only wondering whether I could help. And I can look after myself Jamie.”

“Well, you can’t,” says Harry shortly.

“You’re being rather rude, you know,” says Luna serenely.

Harry swears and turns away.

“Wait,” says Hermione suddenly. “Wait . . . Harry, they can help.”

Harry, Ron, and I look at her.

“Listen,” she says urgently, “Harry, we need to establish whether Sirius really has left headquarters —”

“I’ve told you, I saw —”

“Harry, I’m begging you, please!” says Hermione desperately. “Please let’s just check that Sirius isn’t at home before we go charging off to London — if we find out he’s not there then I swear I won’t try and stop you, I’ll come, I’ll d-do whatever it takes to try and save him —”

“Sirius is being tortured NOW!” shouts Harry. “We haven’t got time to waste —”

“But if this is a trick of V-Voldemort’s — Harry, we’ve got to check, we’ve got to —”

“How?” Harry demands. “How’re we going to check?”

“We’ll have to use Umbridge’s fire and see if we can contact him,” says Hermione, who looks positively terrified at the thought. “We’ll draw Umbridge away again, but we’ll need lookouts, and that’s where we can use Ginny and Luna.”

Though clearly struggling to understand what is going on, Ginny says immediately, “Yeah, we’ll do it,” and Luna says, “When you say ‘Sirius,’ are you talking about Stubby Boardman?”

Nobody answers her.

“Okay,” Harry says aggressively to Hermione, “Okay, if you can think of a way of doing this quickly, I’m with you, otherwise I’m going to the Department of Mysteries right now —”

“The Department of Mysteries?” says Luna, looking mildly surprised. “But how are you going to get there?”

Again, Harry ignores her.

“Right,” says Hermione, twisting her hands together and pacing up and down between the desks. “Right . . . well . . . One of us has to go and find Umbridge and — and send her off in the wrong direction, keep her away from her office. They could tell her — I don’t know — that Peeves is up to something awful as usual . . .”

“I’ll do it,” says Ron at once. “I’ll tell her Peeves is smashing up the Transfiguration department or something, it’s miles away from her office. Come to think of it, I could probably persuade Peeves to do it if I met him on the way . . .”

It is a mark of the seriousness of the situation that Hermione makes no objection to the smashing up of the Transfiguration department.

“Okay,” she says, her brow furrowed as she continues to pace. “Now, we need to keep students away from her office while we force entry, or some Slytherin’s bound to go and tip her off . . .”

“Luna and I can stand at either end of the corridor,” says Ginny promptly, “and warn people not to go down there because someone’s let off a load of Garroting Gas.” Hermione looks surprised at the readiness with which Ginny had come up with this lie. Ginny shrugs and said, “Fred and George were planning to do it before they left.”

“That would have been great.” I say with a fond smile on my face. I really miss those two. Ginny smiles at me sadly, as well mirroring the same emotion.

“Okay,” says Hermione, “well then, Harry, you and I will be under the Invisibility Cloak, and we’ll sneak into the office and you can talk to Sirius —”

“He’s not there, Hermione!”

“I mean, you can — can check whether Sirius is at home or not while I keep watch, I don’t think you should be in there alone, Lee’s already proved the window’s a weak spot, sending those nifflers through it.”

“I . . . okay, thanks,” he mutters.

“Right, well, even if we do all of that, I don’t think we’re going to be able to bank on more than five minutes,” says Hermione, looking relieved that Harry seems to have accepted the plan, “not with Filch and the wretched Inquisitorial Squad floating around.”

“Five minutes’ll be enough,” says Harry. “C’mon, let’s go —”

“Now?” says Hermione, looking shocked.

“Of course now!” says Harry angrily. “What did you think, we’re going to wait until after dinner or something? Hermione, Sirius is being tortured right now!”

“I — oh all right,” she says desperately. “You go and get the Invisibility Cloak and we’ll meet you at the end of Umbridge’s corridor, okay?”

“You got anything to say about this?” Harry demands giving me a mutinous look. I heave a sigh and shake my head.

“I just want you to take a second and figure out what exactly is going on here. This war will over if Voldemort gets his hands on you, before we even get a chance to fight back.” I say seriously. Harry glares at me but doesn’t say a word.

“I — oh all right,” Hermione says desperately. “You go and get the Invisibility Cloak and we’ll meet you at the end of Umbridge’s corridor, okay?”

Harry runs out of the classroom without another word. “So much for a relaxing afternoon of winding down from two weeks of hell.” I sigh. Ron pats my back before the five of us make our way out of the classroom.

We make our way to the stairs but before we can start climbing them we’re stopped by two happy and curious people.

“Hey Jame, happy end of exams!” Luka says brightly grinning wildly at Ron and me. I guess that they must have gone well for him.

“Is Harry okay?” Ariana asks us worriedly.

“He’s fine… just a little distracted.” Hermione says lightly. Ginny snorts at that.

“You mean more like freaking out.” She says. Both Ariana and Luka give us confused looks.

“What happened?” Luka asks lowering his voice and following along behind us as we make our way to Umbridge’s corridor.

“Before we tell you that you need to know that we’re all about to do something insanely risky and more than a little stupid. If you want to stay out of trouble back away now.” I tell them seriously. Ariana and Luka’s expressions turn serious, and I can see them weighing their options in their heads.

“I’m in I know that Harry and I don’t talk all that much, but he’s a good bloke and one of your best friends Jamie. Whatever I can do to help him works for me.” Luka says suddenly. I can’t help but feel my eyes widen at that.

“You could get expelled.” I warn him.

Luka grins at me grimly.

“I believe that one day justice will prevail here. Harry and the rest of us here deserve justice.” Luka says simply. I smile happily at my brother as Ginny tackles him in a hug and Ron grins at him.

“I don’t have an eloquent speech as Luka, but I’m ready to help out anyway that I can. Grandfather would want me to.” Ariana says simply. I reach out and give her hand a squeeze just as we reach Umbridge’s corridor. Not even two minutes later Harry comes rushing around the corner.

“Got it,” he pants. “Ready to go, then?” Harry eyes the new arrivals.

“They’re here to help.” Luna says dreamily.

“All right,” whispers Hermione as a gang of loud sixth years pass us. “So Ron — you go and head Umbridge off take Luka with you she’ll be more willing to believe him as well. . . . Ginny, Luna, Ariana if you can start moving people out of the corridor. . . . Harry, Jamie, and I will get the Cloak on and wait until the coast is clear . . .”

Ron and Luka stride away, Ron’s bright red hair visible right to the end of the passage. Meanwhile, Ginny’s equally vivid head bobs between the jostling students surrounding them in the other direction, trailed by the two blondes.

“Get over here,” mutters Hermione, tugging at Harry’s wrist and mine and pulling us back into a recess where the ugly stone head of a medieval wizard stands muttering to itself on a column. “Are — are you sure you’re okay, Harry? You’re still very pale . . .”

“I’m fine,” he says shortly, tugging the Invisibility Cloak from out of his bag.

“Here,” Harry says. He throws the Invisibility Cloak over the three of us and we stand listening carefully over the Latin mumblings of the bust in front of us.

“You can’t come down here!” Ginny is calling to the crowd. “No, sorry, you’re going to have to go round by the swiveling staircase, someone’s let off Garroting Gas just along here —”

We can hear people complaining; one surly voice says, “I can’t see no gas . . .”

“That’s because it’s colorless,” says Ginny in a convincingly exasperated voice, “but if you want to walk through it, carry on, then we’ll have your body as proof for the next idiot who didn’t believe us . . .”

Slowly the crowd thins. The news about the Garroting Gas seems to have spread — people are not coming this way anymore. When at last the surrounding area is quite clear, Hermione says quietly, “I think that’s as good as we’re going to get, Harry — come on, let’s do it.”

Together we move forwards, covered by the Cloak. Luna is standing with her back to us at the far end of the corridor along with Ariana the two talking quietly. As we pass Ginny, Hermione whispers, “Good one . . . don’t forget the signal . . .”

“What’s the signal?” mutters Harry, as we approach Umbridge’s door.

I have to let a grin at this one. “A loud chorus of ‘Weasley Is Our King’ if they see Umbridge coming,” I reply, as Harry inserts the blade of Sirius’s knife in the crack between door and wall. The lock clicks open, and we enter the office.

The garish kittens are basking in the late afternoon sunshine warming their plates, but otherwise the office is as still and empty as last time. Hermione breathes a sigh of relief.

“I thought she might have added extra security after the second niffler . . .”

We pull off the Cloak. Hermione hurries over to the window and stands out of sight, peering down into the grounds with her wand out. Harry dashes over to the fireplace, seizes the pot of Floo powder, and throws a pinch into the grate, causing emerald flames to burst into life there. He kneels down quickly, thrusts his head into the dancing fire, and cries, “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

I take out my own wand and stand guard near the door. I listen as Harry argues with what I assume is Kreacher. By the sound and volume of the argument I guess that Sirius isn’t there. Dread fills me. Did I just hear right? Is Sirius actually at the Department of Mysteries? That foolish man! Before I can ever tell Harry to hurry up, the door of the room is slammed open, and smacks me in the face.

I hear a pop and the now familiar rush of wetness that signifies that my nose is broken again. I groan and my hands fly to my noise but not before Pansy Parkinson is in my face again. Umbridge quickly hurries past us and over to Harry yanking him harshly out of the fire, hitting his head in the process.

Crabbe and Goyle, another large Slytherin girl, and Millicent Bulstrode come in with Ron, Luka, Ariana, Ginny, Luna, and surprisingly Neville. I groan as Pansy giggles in my ear. “This seems really familiar doesn’t it Pendragon?”

“You think,” she whispers, bending Harry’s neck back even farther, so that he is looking up at the ceiling above him, “that after two nifflers I was going to let one more foul, scavenging little creature enter my office without my knowledge? I had Stealth Sensoring Spells placed all around my doorway after the last one got in, you foolish boy. Take his wand,” she. “Both of theirs too . . .”

Pansy giggles again and roughly wrests my wand from my hand, and smashes my nose into the bookcase to my left causes another pop, and more blood.

“Stop it!”

“I swear to Merlin I’ll kill you!”

“Don’t you touch her!”

I can hear my siblings and Ariana cry out.

“I want to know why you are in my office,” says Umbridge, shaking the fist clutching Harry’s hair so that he staggers.

“I was — trying to get my Firebolt!” Harry croaks.

“Liar.” She shakes his head again. “Your Firebolt is under strict guard in the dungeons along with Pendragon’s, as you very well know, Potter. You had your head in my fire. With whom have you been communicating?”

“No one —” says Harry, trying to pull away from her.

“Liar!” shouts Umbridge. She throws him from her, and he slams into the desk. Hermione is pinioned against the wall by Millicent Bulstrode with the same happening to me with Parkinson. Malfoy is leaning on the windowsill, smirking as he throws Harry’s wand into the air one-handed and then catches it again.

“Got ’em all,” says Warrington breaking the silence, shoving Ron and Luka roughly forward. “That one,” he pokes a thick finger at Neville, “tried to stop me taking her,” he points at Ginny, who is trying to kick the shins of the large Slytherin girl holding her, “so I brought him along too.”

“Good, good,” says Umbridge, watching Ginny’s struggles. “Well, it looks as though Hogwarts will shortly be a Weasley-free zone, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy laughs loudly and sycophantically. Umbridge gives her wide, complacent smile and settles herself into a chintz-covered armchair, blinking up at her captives like a toad in a flowerbed.

“So, Potter,” she says. “You stationed lookouts around my office and you sent this buffoon and a formerly respectable student,” she nods at Ron and Luka, and Malfoy laughs even louder, “to tell me the poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration department when I knew perfectly well that he was busy smearing ink on the eyepieces of all the school telescopes, Mr. Filch having just informed me so.

“Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to somebody. Was it Albus Dumbledore? Or the half-breed, Hagrid? I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I hear she is still too ill to talk to anyone . . .”

Malfoy and a few of the other members of the Inquisitorial Squad laugh some more at that.

“Shut up you hag! You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being let alone an educator!” Ariana growls from her hold next to Ginny. Umbridge narrows her eyes at Ariana dangerously.

“The last Dumbledore. Seems like the once great line is about to lose all chances of redemption having not one but two traitors to the Ministry in it.” Umbridge smiles.

“Don’t you talk to her like that!” I growl slamming my foot down on the top of Parkinson’s foot. With a yelp she releases me, and I make it only a step before I’m yanked back by my hair. Malfoy has a tight grip on me yanking my head back causing me to gag on the blood still streaming from my nose.

“You’re not going anywhere Pendragon.” Malfoy growls into my ear. I gather some of my blood in my mouth and spit it up at him. He gags, wiping the disgusting mess off his face and yanking my head back further.

“It’s none of your business who I talk to,” Harry snarls trying to keep the attention off of me.

Umbridge’s slack face seems to tighten.

“Very well,” she says in her most dangerous and falsely sweet voice. “Very well, Mr. Potter . . . I offered you the chance to tell me freely. You refused. I have no alternative but to force you. Draco let Parkinson have the girl back — fetch Professor Snape.”

Malfoy shoves me back over to Pansy, and I’m in a headlock faster then I can blink. This is really not my day I swear. When this is all over I’m killing Parkinson there’s no other way, she’s broken my nose twice this semester.

There is silence in the office except for the fidgetings and scufflings resultant from the Slytherins’ efforts to keep the rest of us under control. Ron’s lip is bleeding onto Umbridge’s carpet along with my nose as he struggles against Warrington’s half nelson. Ginny is still trying to stamp on the feet of the sixth-year girl who has both her upper arms in a tight grip. Neville is turning steadily more purple in the face while tugging at Crabbe’s arms, and Hermione is attempting vainly to throw Millicent Bulstrode off her. Luka and Ariana are struggling against Goyle while casting me worried looks. Luna, however, stands limply by the side of her captor, gazing vaguely out of the window as though rather bored by the proceedings.

I look back at Umbridge, who is watching Harry closely. He keeps his face deliberately smooth and blank as footsteps are heard in the corridor outside and Draco Malfoy comes back into the room, holding open the door for Snape.

“You wanted to see me, Headmistress?” says Snape, looking around at all the pairs of struggling students with an expression of complete indifference.

“Ah, Professor Snape,” says Umbridge, smiling widely and standing up again. “Yes, I would like another bottle of Veritaserum, as quick as you can, please.”

“You took my last bottle to interrogate Potter,” Snape says, observing her coolly through his greasy curtains of black hair. “Surely you did not use it all? I told you that three drops would be sufficient.”

Umbridge flushes.

“You can make some more, can’t you?” she says, her voice becoming more sweetly girlish as it always does when she is furious.

“Certainly,” says Snape, his lip curling. “It takes a full moon cycle to mature, so I should have it ready for you in around a month.”

I can’t help but snort at that, but I’m punished for it with punch to my kidneys and I groan, while the struggles are renewed from my comrades.

“A month?” squawks Umbridge, swelling toadishly. “A month? But I need it this evening, Snape! I have just found Potter using my fire to communicate with a person or persons unknown!”

“Really?” says Snape, showing his first, faint sign of interest as he looks around at Harry. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me. Potter has never shown much inclination to follow school rules.”

“I wish to interrogate him!” shouts Umbridge angrily, and Snape looks away from Harry back into her furiously quivering face. “I wish you to provide me with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!”

“I have already told you,” says Snape smoothly, “that I have no further stocks of Veritaserum. Unless you wish to poison Potter — and I assure you I would have the greatest sympathy with you if you did — I cannot help you. The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling . . .”

“You are on probation!” shrieks Professor Umbridge, and Snape looks back at her, his eyebrows slightly raised. “You are being deliberately unhelpful! I expected better, Lucius Malfoy always speaks most highly of you! Now get out of my office!”

Snape gives her an ironic bow and turns to leave.

“He’s got Padfoot!” Harry shouts. “He’s got Padfoot at the place where it’s hidden!”

Snape stops with his hand on Umbridge’s door handle.

“Padfoot?” cries Professor Umbridge, looking eagerly from Harry to Snape. “What is Padfoot? Where what is hidden? What does he mean, Snape?”

“I have no idea,” says Snape coldly. “Potter, when I want nonsense shouted at me I shall give you a Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a little, if Longbottom suffocates it will mean a lot of tedious paperwork, and I am afraid I shall have to mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a job.”

He closes the door behind him with a snap. Harry looked at Umbridge, whose chest is heaving with rage and frustration.

“Very well,” she says, and she pulls out her wand. “Very well . . . I am left with no alternative. . . . This is more than a matter of school discipline. . . . This is an issue of Ministry security. . . . Yes . . . yes . . .”

She seems to be talking herself into something. She is shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot, staring at Harry, beating her wand against her empty palm and breathing heavily.

“You are forcing me, Potter. . . . I do not want to,” says Umbridge, still moving restlessly on the spot, “but sometimes circumstances justify the use . . . I am sure the Minister will understand that I had no choice . . .”

Malfoy is watching her with a hungry expression on his face.

“The Cruciatus Curse ought to loosen your tongue,” says Umbridge quietly.

“No!” shrieks Hermione. “Professor Umbridge — it’s illegal” — but Umbridge takes no notice. There is a nasty, eager, excited look on her face that I have never seen before. She raises her wand.

“The Minister wouldn’t want you to break the law, Professor Umbridge!” cries Hermione.

“She doesn’t care anymore Mione the power’s gone to her head. Not that she ever had much of a brain to begin with.” I spit. That earns me another punch, and Ariana sobs in her hold.

“For Merlin’s sake Jamie just please shut up.” She begs. I spit out some of the blood dripping down my face onto Umbridge’s carpet. I can’t seem to do anything right today.

“What Cornelius doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” says Umbridge, who is now panting slightly as she points her wand at different parts of Harry’s body in turn, apparently trying to decide what will hurt the most totally ignoring my outburst. “He never knew I ordered dementors after Potter last summer, but he was delighted to be given the chance to expel him, all the same. . . .”

“It was you?” gasps Harry. “You sent the dementors after me?”

“Somebody had to act,” breathes Umbridge, as her wand comes to rest pointing directly at Harry’s forehead. “They were all bleating about silencing you somehow — discrediting you — but I was the one who actually did something about it . . . Only you wriggled out of that one, didn’t you, Potter? Not today, though, not now . . .”

And taking a deep breath, she cries, “Cruc —”

“NO!” shouts Hermione in a cracked voice from behind Millicent Bulstrode. “No — Harry — Harry, we’ll have to tell her!”

“No way!” yells Harry, staring at the little of Hermione he can see.

“We’ll have to, Harry, she’ll force it out of you anyway, what’s . . . what’s the point . . . ?”

“Hermione shut up!” I shout.

And Hermione begins to cry weakly into the back of Millicent Bulstrode’s robes. Millicent stops trying to squash her against the wall immediately and dodges out of her way looking disgusted.

“Well, well, well!” says Umbridge, looking triumphant. “Little Miss Question-All is going to give us some answers! Come on then, girl, come on!”

“Er — my — nee — no!” shouts Ron through his gag.

Ginny was staring at Hermione as though she has never seen her before; Neville, still choking for breath, is gazing at her too. But I have just noticed something. Though Hermione is sobbing desperately into her hands, there is no trace of a tear. . . . and it looks like Harry has realized it as well.

“I’m — I’m sorry everyone,” says Hermione. “But — I can’t stand it —”

“Don’t you dare Granger.” I growl, only to be shoved into the bookcase again. I really should just stop trying to be helpful from now on.

“That’s right, that’s right, girl!” says Umbridge, seizing Hermione by the shoulders, thrusting her into the abandoned chintz chair and leaning over her. “Now then . . . with whom was Potter communicating just now?”

“Well,” gulps Hermione into her hands, “well, he was trying to speak to Professor Dumbledore . . .”

Ron freezes, his eyes wide; Ginny stops trying to stamp on her Slytherin captor’s toes; Ariana and Luka look puzzled for a second, even Luna looks mildly surprised.  Fortunately, the attention of Umbridge and her minions is focused too exclusively upon Hermione to notice these suspicious signs.

“Dumbledore?” says Umbridge eagerly. “You know where Dumbledore is, then?”

“Well . . . no!” sobs Hermione. “We’ve tried the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley and the Three Broomsticks and even the Hog’s Head —”

“Idiot girl, Dumbledore won’t be sitting in a pub when the whole Ministry’s looking for him!” shouts Umbridge, disappointment etched in every sagging line of her face.

“But — but we needed to tell him something important!” wails Hermione, holding her hands more tightly over her face, not, I know, out of anguish, but to disguise the continued absence of tears.

“Yes?” says Umbridge with a sudden resurgence of excitement. “What was it you wanted to tell him?”

“Don’t you dare Mione!” I growl trying to keep up her ruse since no one else is trying to.

“We . . . we wanted to tell him it’s r-ready!” chokes Hermione.

“What’s ready?” demands Umbridge, and now she grabs Hermione’s shoulders again and shakes her slightly. “What’s ready, girl?”

“The . . . the weapon,” says Hermione.

“No!” I cry hanging my head in fake defeat.

“Weapon? Weapon?” says Umbridge, and her eyes seem to pop with excitement. “You have been developing some method of resistance? A weapon you could use against the Ministry? On Professor Dumbledore’s orders, of course?”

“Y-y-yes,” gasps Hermione. “But he had to leave before it was finished and n-n-now we’ve finished it for him, and we c-c-can’t find him t-t-to tell him!”

“What kind of weapon is it?” says Umbridge harshly, her stubby hands still tight on Hermione’s shoulders.

“We don’t r-r-really understand it,” says Hermione, sniffing loudly. “We j-j-just did what P-P-Professor Dumbledore told us t-t-to do . . .”

Umbridge straightens up, looking exultant.

“Lead me to the weapon,” she says.

“No Hermione don’t!” I yell, but it does no good.

“I’m not showing . . . them,” says Hermione shrilly, looking around at the Slytherins through her fingers.

“It is not for you to set conditions,” says Professor Umbridge harshly.

“Fine,” says Hermione, now sobbing into her hands again, “fine . . . let them see it, I hope they use it on you! In fact, I wish you’d invite loads and loads of people to come and see! Th-that would serve you right — oh, I’d love it if the wh-whole school knew where it was, and how to u-use it, and then if you annoy any of them they’ll be able to s-sort you out!”

These words have a powerful impact on Umbridge. She glances swiftly and suspiciously around at her Inquisitorial Squad, her bulging eyes resting for a moment on Malfoy, who is too slow to disguise the look of eagerness and greed that has appeared on his face.

Umbridge contemplates Hermione for another long moment and then speaks in what she clearly thinks is a motherly voice. “All right, dear, let’s make it just you and me . . . and we’ll take Potter and Pendragon too, shall we she’s been aweful vocal tonight hasn’t she? Get up, now —”

“Professor,” says Malfoy eagerly, “Professor Umbridge, I think some of the squad should come with you to look after —”

“I am a fully qualified Ministry official, Malfoy, do you really think I cannot manage three wandless teenagers alone one of them injured at that?” asks Umbridge sharply. “In any case, it does not sound as though this weapon is something that schoolchildren should see. You will remain here until I return and make sure none of these” — she gestures around at Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna, Ariana, and Luka — “escape.”

“All right,” says Malfoy, looking sulky and disappointed. Pansy releases me and I sag forward a little my injuries aching and my head spinning from the blood loss. At least I’ve stopped bleeding now, but it’s painful to breath through my nose.

“And you three can go ahead of me and show me the way,” says Umbridge, pointing at Harry, Hermione, and me with her wand. “Lead on . . .”

Harry grabs onto me to keep my upright and we follow Umbridge out of her office without even getting to glance back at our friends we’re leaving behind.


	29. Fight and Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 29- Fight and Flight

 

Harry and I have no idea what Hermione is planning, or even whether she has a plan. We walk half a pace behind her as we head down the corridor outside Umbridge’s office, knowing it will look very suspicious if we appear not to know where we are going. I’m lucky that Harry is still supporting me, for I’m not sure if my shaky steps could support my weight. We do not dare to talk to her; Umbridge is walking so closely behind us that I can hear her ragged breathing.

Hermione leads the way down the stairs into the entrance hall. The din of loud voices and the clatter of cutlery on plates echo from out of the double doors to the Great Hall. It seems incredible to me that twenty feet away are people who are enjoying dinner, celebrating the end of exams, not a care in the world. . . .

The burden of knowledge always seems to fall on us.

Hermione walks straight out of the oak front doors and down the stone steps into the balmy evening air. The sun is falling towards the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest now as Hermione marches purposefully across the grass, Umbridge jogging to keep up. Their long dark shadows ripple over the grass behind us like cloaks.

“It’s hidden in Hagrid’s hut, is it?” says Umbridge eagerly in Harry’s and my ear.

“Of course not,” says Hermione scathingly. “Hagrid might have set it off accidentally.”

“Yes,” says Umbridge, whose excitement seems to be mounting. “Yes, he would have done, of course, the great half-breed oaf . . .”

She laughs. I have to stop my shaking hands from reaching out and burning her with the blue fire that I feel bubbling just under my skin. I’ve taken too much abuse in the last hour for my magic not to be acting up, not to mention that my face is still a mess. We’re lucky no one noticed.

“Then . . . where is it?” asks Umbridge, with a hint of uncertainty in her voice as Hermione continues to stride towards the forest.

“In there, of course,” says Hermione, pointing into the dark trees. “It had to be somewhere that students weren’t going to find it accidentally, didn’t it?”

“Of course,” says Umbridge, though she sounds a little apprehensive now. “Of course . . . very well, then . . . you three stay ahead of me.”

“Can we have your wand, then, if we’re going first?” Harry asks her.

“No, I don’t think so, Mr. Potter,” says Umbridge sweetly, poking him in the back with it. “The Ministry places a rather higher value on my life than yours, I’m afraid.”

As we reach the cool shade of the first trees, I try to catch Hermione’s eye; walking into the forest without wands seems to me to be more foolhardy than anything we have done so far this evening. She, however, merely gives Umbridge a contemptuous glance and plunges straight into the trees, moving at such a pace that Umbridge, with her shorter legs, has difficulty in keeping up.

“Is it very far in?” Umbridge asks, as her robe rips on a bramble.

“Oh yes,” says Hermione. “Yes, it’s well hidden.”

“I still can’t believe that we’re taking her to it.” I grumble, deciding that keeping up my act is the safest course of action.

“Er — are you sure this is the right way?” Harry asks Hermione pointedly.

“Oh yes,” she says in a steely voice, crashing through the undergrowth with what I think is a wholly unnecessary amount of noise. Behind us, Umbridge trips over a fallen sapling. None of us pause to help her up again; Hermione merely strides on, calling loudly over her shoulder, “It’s a bit further in!”

“Hermione, keep your voice down,” Harry mutters, hurrying to catch up with her while half dragging me. “Anything could be listening in here —”

“I want us heard,” she answers quietly, as Umbridge jogs noisily after us. “You’ll see . . .”

“Mione anything but this…” I groan finally catching onto what her plan is. It has just as good a chance as getting us killed as it does Umbridge.

We walk on for what seems a long time, until we are once again so deep into the forest that the dense tree canopy blocks out all light. I have the feeling I have had before in the forest, one of being watched by unseen eyes. . . .

“How much further?” demands Umbridge angrily from behind Harry and me.

“Not far now!” shouts Hermione, as we emerge into a dim, dank clearing. “Just a little bit —”

An arrow flies through the air and lands with a menacing thud in the tree just over her head. The air is suddenly full of the sound of hooves. I can feel the forest floor trembling; Umbridge gives a little scream and pushes Harry and me in front of her like a shield —

Oh she didn’t just do that.

Harry wrenches both of us free of her and turns. Around fifty centaurs are emerging on every side, their bows raised and loaded, pointing at Harry, Hermione, Umbridge, and me who back slowly into the center of the clearing, Umbridge uttering odd little whimpers of terror. I look sideways at Hermione. She is wearing a triumphant smile.

“Who are you?” says a voice.

I look left. The chestnut-bodied centaur called Magorian is walking towards us out of the circle; his bow, like the others’, is raised. On my right, Umbridge is still whimpering, her wand trembling violently as she points it at the advancing centaur.

“I asked you who are you, human,” says Magorian roughly.

“I am Dolores Umbridge!” says Umbridge in a high-pitched, terrified voice. “Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic and Headmistress and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts!”

“You are from the Ministry of Magic?” says Magorian, as many of the centaurs in the surrounding circle shift restlessly.

“That’s right!” says Umbridge in an even higher voice. “So be very careful! By the laws laid down by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, any attack by half-breeds such as yourselves on a human —”

“What did you call us?” shouts a wild-looking black centaur, whom I recognized from the forest last time. There is a great deal of angry muttering and tightening of bowstrings around us.

“Don’t call them that!” Hermione says furiously, but Umbridge does not appear to have heard her. Still pointing her shaking wand at Magorian, she continues, “Law Fifteen B states clearly that ‘Any attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have near-human intelligence, and therefore considered responsible for its actions —’”

“‘Near-human intelligence’?” repeats Magorian, as Bane and several others roar with rage and paw the ground. “We consider that a great insult, human! Our intelligence, thankfully, far outstrips your own —”

“They’re smarter than you’ll ever be.” I glare at Umbridge. Might as well get it all out while I still have a chance.

“What are you doing in our forest?” bellow the hard-faced gray centaur whom Harry, Hermione, and I saw on our last trip into the forest. “Why are you here?”

“Your forest?” says Umbridge, shaking now not only with fright but also, it seems, with indignation. “I would remind you that you live here only because the Ministry of Magic permits you certain areas of land —”

An arrow flies so close to her head that it catches at her mousy hair in passing. She lets out an earsplitting scream and throws her hands over her head while some of the centaurs bellow their approval and others laugh raucously. The sound of their wild, neighing laughter echoes around the dimly lit clearing and the sight of their pawing hooves is extremely unnerving.

“Whose forest is it now, human?” bellows Bane.

“Filthy half-breeds!” she screams, her hands still tight over her head. “Beasts! Uncontrolled animals!”

“Be quiet!” shouts Hermione, but it is too late — Umbridge points her wand at Magorian and screams, “Incarcerous!”

Ropes fly out of midair like thick snakes, wrapping themselves tightly around the centaur’s torso and trapping his arms. He gives a cry of rage and rears onto his hind legs, attempting to free himself, while the other centaurs charge.

Harry grabs Hermione, and me pulling us to the ground. My ribs protest at the sharp and sudden movement. Facedown on the forest floor I know a moment of terror as hooves thunder around me, but the centaurs leap over and around us, bellowing and screaming with rage.

“Nooooo!” I hear Umbridge shriek. “Noooooo . . . I am Senior Undersecretary . . . you cannot . . . unhand me, you animals . . . nooooo!”

I see a flash of red light and know that she has attempted to Stun one of them — then she screams very loudly. Lifting my head a few inches, I see that Umbridge has been seized from behind by Bane and lifted high into the air, wriggling and yelling with fright. Her wand falls from her hand to the ground and my heart leaps, if I can just reach it —

But as I stretch out a hand towards it, a centaur’s hoof descends upon the wand and it breaks cleanly in half.

“Now!” roars a voice in my ear and a thick hairy arm descends from thin air and drags me upright; Hermione and Harry too have been pulled to their feet. Over the plunging, many-colored backs and heads of the centaurs I see Umbridge being borne away through the trees by Bane, still screaming nonstop; her voice grows fainter and fainter until we can no longer hear it over the trampling of hooves surrounding us.

“And these?” say the hard-faced, gray centaur holding Hermione.

“They are young,” says a slow, doleful voice from behind me. “We do not attack foals, and this one is injured.”

“They brought her here, Ronan,” replies the centaur who has such a firm grip on Harry. “And they are not so young. . . . He is nearing manhood, this one . . .”

He shakes Harry by the neck of his robes.

“Please,” says Hermione breathlessly, “please, don’t attack us, we don’t think like her, we aren’t Ministry of Magic employees! We only came in here because we hoped you’d drive her off for us —”

Harry know at once from the look on the face of the gray centaur holding Hermione that she has made a terrible mistake in saying this. The gray centaur throws back his head, his back legs stamping furiously, and bellows, “You see, Ronan? They already have the arrogance of their kind! So we were to do your dirty work, were we, human girl? We were to act as your servants, drive away your enemies like obedient hounds?”

“No!” says Hermione in a horrorstruck squeak. “Please — I didn’t mean that! I just hoped you’d be able to — to help us —”

But she seems to be going from bad to worse.

“We do not help humans!” snarls the centaur holding Harry, tightening his grip and rearing a little at the same time, so that Harry’s feet leave the ground momentarily. I watch on in worry. “We are a race apart and proud to be so. . . . We will not permit you to walk from here, boasting that we did your bidding!”

“We’re not going to say anything like that!” Harry shouts. “We know you didn’t do anything because we wanted you to —”

“Please we mean no offence!” I cry out as loud as I can though it comes out very nasally from my hurt nose.

But nobody seems to be listening to us. A bearded centaur towards the back of the crowd shouts, “They came here unasked, they must pay the consequences!”

A roar of approval meets these words and a dun-colored centaur shouts, “They can join the woman!”

“You said you didn’t hurt the innocent!” shouts Hermione, real tears sliding down her face now. “We haven’t done anything to hurt you, we haven’t used wands or threats, we just want to go back to school, please let us go back —”

“We are not all like the traitor Firenze, human girl!” shouts the gray centaur, to more neighing roars of approval from his fellows. “Perhaps you thought us pretty talking horses? We are an ancient people who will not stand wizard invasions and insults! We do not recognize your laws, we do not acknowledge your superiority, we are —”

But we do not hear what else centaurs are, for at that moment there comes a crashing noise on the edge of the clearing so loud that all of us — Harry, Hermione, and the fifty or so centaurs filling the clearing — look around. Harry’s centaur lets him fall to the ground again as his hands fly to his bow and quiver of arrows; Hermione has been dropped too, and I’m short to follow with a groan, and Harry hurries towards us as two thick tree trunks part ominously and the monstrous form of Grawp the giant appears in the gap.

The centaurs nearest me back into those behind. The clearing is now a forest of bows and arrows waiting to be fired, all pointing upwards at the enormous grayish face now looming over us from just beneath the thick canopy of branches. Grawp’s lopsided mouth is gaping stupidly. We can see his bricklike yellow teeth glimmering in the half-light, his dull sludge-colored eyes narrow as he squints down at the creatures at his feet. Broken ropes trail from both ankles.

He opens his mouth even wider.

“Hagger.”

Is he trying to ask for Hagrid— I am watching Grawp’s feet, which are almost as long as my whole body. Hermione grips Harry’s and my arms tightly; the centaurs are quite silent, staring up at the giant, whose huge, round head moves from side to side as he continues to peer amongst us as though looking for something he has dropped.

“Hagger!” he says again, more insistently.

“Get away from here, giant!” calls Magorian. “You are not welcome among us!”

These words seem to make no impression whatsoever on Grawp. He stoops a little (the centaurs’ arms tense on their bows) and then bellows, “HAGGER!”

A few of the centaurs look worried now. Hermione, however, gives a gasp.

“Jamie! Harry!” she whispers. “I think he’s trying to say ‘Hagrid’!”

At this precise moment Grawp catches sight of us, the only three humans in a sea of centaurs. He lowers his head another foot or so, staring intently at us. I can feel Hermione shaking as Grawp opens his mouth wide again and says, in a deep, rumbling voice, “Hermy.”

Okay that is probably one of the most amazing things that I’ve seen in a long time.

“Goodness,” says Hermione, gripping my arm so tightly it is growing numb and looking as though she is about to faint, “he — he remembered!”

“HERMY!” roars Grawp. “WHERE HAGGER?”

“I don’t know!” squeals Hermione, terrified. “I’m sorry, Grawp, I don’t know!”

“GRAWP WANT HAGGER!”

One of the giant’s massive hands swoop down upon us — Hermione lets out a real scream and I’m pretty sure that I do as well, runs a few steps backwards and falls over. Wandless, Harry and I brace ouselves to punch, kick, bite, or whatever else it takes as the hand flies toward us and knocks a snow-white centaur off his legs.

It is what the centaurs have been waiting for — Grawp’s outstretched fingers are a foot from Harry and me when fifty arrows go soaring through the air at the giant, peppering his enormous face, causing him to howl with pain and rage and straighten up again, rubbing his face with his enormous hands, breaking off the arrow shafts but forcing the heads in still deeper.

I wince in sympathy for the giant.

He yells and stamps his enormous feet and the centaurs scatter out of the way.  Pebble-sized droplets of Grawp’s blood shower Harry and me as we pull Hermione to her feet and the three of us run as fast as we can for the shelter of the trees. Once there we look back — Grawp is snatching blindly at the centaurs as blood runs all down his face; they are retreating in disorder, galloping away through the trees on the other side of the clearing. As Harry, Hermione, and I watch, Grawp gives another roar of fury and plunges after them, smashing more trees aside as he goes.

“Oh no,” says Hermione, quaking so badly that her knees give way. “Oh, that was horrible. And he might kill them all . . .”

“I’m not that fussed, to be honest,” says Harry bitterly.

“I think I may faint…” I murmur. I’m not sure if its from the blood loss or the mixture of fear and adrenaline running through my system.

The sounds of the galloping centaurs and the blundering giant are growing fainter and fainter.

“Smart plan,” Harry spits at Hermione. “Really smart plan. Where do we go from here?”

“Don’t yell at her. She just saved us.” I say woozily leaning heavily into Hermione.

“We need to get back up to the castle,” says Hermione faintly, trying to support herself and me.

“By the time we’ve done that, Sirius’ll probably be dead!” says Harry, kicking a nearby tree in temper; there is a high-pitched chattering overhead and he looks up to see an angry bowtruckle flexing its long twiglike fingers at him.

“Well, we can’t do anything without wands,” says Hermione hopelessly, dragging herself up again. “Anyway, Harry, how exactly were you planning to get all the way to London?”

“Yeah, we were just wondering that,” says a familiar voice from behind her.

The three of us move instinctively together, peering through the trees, as Ron comes into sight, with Ginny, Neville, Luka, Ariana, and Luna hurrying along behind him. All of them look a little the worse for wear — there are several long scratches running the length of Ginny’s cheek, a large purple lump is swelling above Neville’s right eye, Ron’s lip is bleeding worse than ever — but all are looking rather pleased with themselves.

Ariana hurries over to me and shoulders my weight, and I notice that her knuckles are scraped and bleeding as she tries to wipe some of the crusted blood on my face with her robe.

“So,” says Ron, pushing aside a low-hanging branch and holding out Harry’s wand, “had any ideas?”

“How did you get away?” asks Harry in amazement, taking his wand from Ron.

“Couple of Stunners, a Disarming Charm, Neville brought off a really nice little Impediment Jinx,” says Ron airily, now handing back Hermione’s and my wand too. “But Ginny was best, she got Malfoy — Bat-Bogey Hex — it was superb, his whole face was covered in the great flapping things. Anyway, we saw you heading into the forest out of the window and followed. What’ve you done with Umbridge?”

“She got carried away,” I say weakly. “By a herd of centaurs.”

“Good riddance.” Ariana spits clearly unmoved by the news not that I blame her at all. Luka comes over and starts looking me over worriedly, and I notice that one of his glasses lens are cracked, and there’s a cut above his brow.

“And they left you behind?” asks Ginny, looking astonished.

“No, they got chased off by Grawp,” says Harry.

“Who’s Grawp?” Luna asks interestedly.

“Hagrid’s little brother,” says Ron promptly. “Anyway, never mind that now. Harry, what did you find out in the fire? Has You-Know-Who got Sirius or — ?”

“Yes,” says Harry, “and I’m sure Sirius is still alive, but I can’t see how we’re going to get there to help him.”

We all fall silent, looking rather scared. The problem facing us seems insurmountable.

“Hold still.” Ariana whispers. I do my best and with a muttered spell and a flick of her wrist I cry out in pain as there’s a loud pop and my nose bursts into pain. My eyes water, but after a moment I notice that it hurts a lot less now.

“Well, we’ll have to fly, won’t we?” says Luna in the closest thing to a matter-of-fact voice I have ever heard her use.

“Okay,” says Harry irritably, rounding on her, “first of all, ‘we’ aren’t doing anything if you’re including yourself in that, and second of all, Ron’s the only one with a broomstick that isn’t being guarded by a security troll, so —”

“I’ve got a broom!” says Ginny. I look over at her biting my lip. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“Yeah, but you’re not coming,” says Ron angrily.

“I’m afraid that he has a good point. Look how bad Jamie is and this is normal for them.” Luka says gravelly.

“Excuse me, but I care what happens to Sirius as much as you do!” says Ginny, her jaw set so that her resemblance to Fred and George is suddenly striking.

“You’re too —” Harry begins.

“I’m three years older than you were when you fought You-Know-Who over the Sorcerer’s Stone,” she says fiercely, “and it’s because of me Malfoy’s stuck back in Umbridge’s office with giant flying bogeys attacking him —”

“Yeah, but —”

“We were all in the D.A. together,” says Neville quietly. “It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know-Who, wasn’t it? And this is the first chance we’ve had to do something real — or was that all just a game or something?”

“No — of course it wasn’t —” says Harry impatiently.

“Then we should come too,” says Neville simply. “We want to help.”

“That’s right,” says Luna, smiling happily.

I heave a sigh. “Just let them come.” I say tiredly, leaning my head on Ariana’s shoulder. I have a feeling that there will be little rest for us.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” says Harry frustratedly, “because we still don’t know how to get there —” He gives me another glare. I guess I can’t do anything right for Harry today.

“I thought we’d settled that?” says Luna maddeningly. “We’re flying!”

“Look,” says Ron, barely containing his anger, “you might be able to fly without a broomstick but the rest of us can’t sprout wings whenever we —”

“There are other ways of flying than with broomsticks,” says Luna serenely.

“I s’pose we’re going to ride on the back of the Kacky Snorgle or whatever it is?” Ron demands.

“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack can’t fly,” says Luna in a dignified voice, “but they can, and Hagrid says they’re very good at finding places their riders are looking for.”

Harry whirls around. He’s looking a something we can’t see behind him. Oh please tell me he’s not going to ask us to ride the invisible horses.

“Yes!” he whispers, moving towards nothing.

“Is it those mad horse things?” says Ron uncertainly, staring at a point slightly to the left of the thestral Harry is supposedly patting. “Those ones you can’t see unless you’ve watched someone snuff it?”

“Yeah,” says Harry.

“How many?”

“Just two.”

“Well, we need four,” says Hermione, who is still looking a little shaken, but determined just the same. I push away from Ariana and go to stand next to her.

“Five, Hermione,” says Ginny, scowling.

“I think there are nine of us, actually,” says Luna calmly, counting. Luka and Ariana nod grimly.

“Don’t be stupid, we can’t all go!” says Harry angrily. “Look, you five” — he points at Neville, Ginny, Luka, Ariana, and Luna — “you’re not involved in this, you’re not —”

They burst into more protests. Harry winces and I look worriedly at him.

“Okay, fine, it’s your choice,” he says curtly. “But unless we can find more thestrals you’re not going to be able —”

“Oh, more of them will come,” says Ginny confidently, who like Ron is squinting in quite the wrong direction, apparently under the impression that she is looking at the horses.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because in case you hadn’t noticed, you, Hermione, and Jamie are covered in blood,” she says coolly, “and we know Hagrid lures thestrals with raw meat, so that’s probably why these two turned up in the first place . . .”

“Okay, then,” he says, a bright idea occurring. “Ron and I will take these two and go ahead, Hermione, and Jamie can stay here with you five and they’ll attract more thestrals —”

“You’re being sexist Harry.” I growl at the boy finally recovering from my faintness.

“I’m not staying behind!” says Hermione furiously.

“There’s no need,” says Luna, smiling. “Look, here come more now. . . . You three must really smell . . .”

Harry turns and his eyes widen in disbelief before he sighs. I guess that there’s more than enough of them for us.

“All right,” he says angrily, “pick one and get on, then.”

Well I guess that I’ll be learning how to fly a horse that I cannot see all the way to London. It sounds like the punch line to a bloody joke. Lets just hope that we can make it.


	30. The Department of Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 30- The Department of Mysteries

 

Harry is easily able to get onto his invisible horse. It’s not that simple for the rest of us who can’t see the creatures. He looks positively creepy just sitting there floating in the air.

“What?” Harry says with an exasperated look.

“How’re we supposed to get on?” says Ron faintly. “When we can’t see the things?”

“Oh it’s easy,” says Luna, sliding obligingly from her thestral and marching over to the rest of us. “Come here . . .”

She pulls us over to the other thestrals standing around and one by one manages to help us onto the backs of our mounts. I can feel the hair of my mount’s mane in my hands yet I cannot feel them. It’s a very disconcerting feeling. Everyone looks freaked out except Harry and Luna.

“This is mad,” Ron says faintly, moving his free hand gingerly up and down his horse’s neck. “Mad . . . if I could just see it —”

“You’d better hope it stays invisible,” says Harry darkly. “We all ready, then?”

We all nod with varying levels of certainty and I see seven fpairs of knees tighten beneath their robes.

“Okay . . .”

Harry looks down at his mount. “Ministry of Magic, visitors’ entrance, London, then,” he says uncertainly. “Er . . . if you know . . . where to go . . .”

For a moment Harry stays still as nothing happens. Then, with a sweeping movement that nearly unseats him, he rockets upwards so fast and so steeply that Harry has to clench his arms and legs tightly around the horse to avoid sliding backwards over its bony rump. Our thestrals follow close behind, and I clutch on for dear life. I close my eyes and put my face down into the horse’s silky mane as we burst through the topmost branches of the trees and soar out into a bloodred sunset.

I do not think I have ever moved so fast: The thestral streaks over the castle carrying me with it. The cooling air is slapping my face; eyes screwed up against the rushing wind, I look around and see my eight fellows soaring along around me, each of them bent as low as possible into the neck of their thestral to protect themselves from its slipstream.

The feeling of flying while not being able to see anything bellow you in support in not a fun one, so despite my many adventurous ways, I keep my eyes firmly shut.

Twilight falls: The sky turns to a light, dusky purple littered with tiny silver stars, and soon it is only the lights of Muggle towns that give us any clue of how far from the ground we are or how very fast we are traveling.

My stomach gives a jolt. I’m suddenly going towards the ground and I have actually slid forward a few inches along its neck. We are descending at last. . . . I hear one of the girls shriek behind me and twist around dangerously but can see no sign of a falling body. . . . Presumably they have received a shock from the change of position, just as I did. . . .

And now bright orange lights are growing larger and rounder on all sides. We can see the tops of buildings, streams of headlights like luminous insect eyes, squares of pale yellow that are windows. Quite suddenly, it seems, we are hurtling towards the pavement. I grip the thestral with every last ounce of my strength, brace for a sudden impact, but the horse touches the dark ground as lightly as a shadow and I slide from his back on shaky legs, looking around at the street where an overflowing dumpster stands a short way from the vandalized telephone box, both drained of color in the flat orange glare of the streetlights.

That was a ride that I never want to take again— ever. I look over at Harry who has a dark worried look on his face. “I may never fly on a broom again because of those things.” I say shakily.

Ron lands a short way away and topples immediately off his thestral onto the pavement.

“Never again,” he says, struggling to his feet. He makes as though to stride away from his thestral, but, unable to see it, collides with it and almost falls over again. “Never, ever again . . . that was the worst —”

Hermione, Ginny, Ariana, and Luka touch down on either side of him. They all slide off their mounts a little more gracefully than Ron, though with similar expressions of relief at being back on firm ground. Neville jumps down, shaking, but Luna dismounts smoothly. Ariana comes over to me with a very pale face.

“I’m trying to figure out which is worse meeting Grawp or flying on those things.” She says haltingly. I shrug my shoulders, because I honestly haven’t had enough time to really think over those options.

“Where do we go from here, then?” Luna asks Harry in a politely interested voice, as though this is all a rather interesting day-trip.

“Over here,” he says. Harry gives the air where his thestral is a quick, grateful pat, then leads the way quickly to the battered telephone box and opens the door. “Come on!” he urges the others as we hesitate.

Ron and Ginny march in obediently; Hermione, and I, squashed in after them. Luka, Ariana, Neville, and Luna stay outside though. “We’ll take the next one down.” Luka says, not liking the squished look of the compartment. Harry nods his head and squeezes in with us.

“Whoever’s nearest the receiver, dial six two four four two!” he says.

Ron dows it, his arm bent bizarrely to reach the dial. As it whirs back into place the cool female voice sounds inside the box, “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger,” Harry said very quickly, “Jamie Pendragon, and Ginny Weasley,. . . We’re here to save someone, unless your Ministry can do it first!”

“Thank you,” says the cool female voice. “Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes.”

Five badges slide out of the metal chute where returned coins usually appear. Hermione scoops them up and hands them mutely to Harry over Ginny’s head; he glances at the topmost one and I have to smile.

HARRY POTTER

RESCUE MISSION

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

“Fine!” Harry says loudly, while wincing. “Now can we move?”

The floor of the telephone box shudders and the pavement rises up past the glass windows of the telephone box. The rest of our group and the scavenging thestrals are sliding out of sight, blackness closes over our heads, and with a dull grinding noise we sink down into the depths of the Ministry of Magic.

A chink of soft golden light hits our feet and, widening, rises up our bodies. I bend his knees and hold my wand as ready as I can in such cramped conditions, peering through the glass to see whether anybody is waiting for them in the Atrium, but it seems to be completely empty. The light is dimmer than it is by day. There are no fires burning under the mantelpieces set into the walls, but I saw as the lift slide smoothly to a halt that golden symbols continue to twist sinuously in the dark blue ceiling.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening,” says the woman’s voice.

The door of the telephone box bursts open; Harry topples out of it, followed by Hermione and me. The only sound in the Atrium is the steady rush of water from the golden fountain, where jets from the wands of the witch and wizard, the point of the centaur’s arrow, the tip of the goblin’s hat, and the house-elf’s ears continues to gush into the surrounding pool.

We all gather our bearings as another phone booth coming sliding down from the ceiling containing the rest of our party. Once they’re free I see something that look suspiciously like ‘suicide mission’ on their badges. “I think I’ve developed claustrophobia, is that something you can develop?” Luka says shaking his arms and legs out now that everyone has more space.

“It is.” Hermione and Ariana answer as one. Harry looks agitated by our dawdling.

“Come on,” says Harry quietly and the nine of us sprint off down the hall, Harry in the lead, past the fountain, towards the desk where the security man weighs wands usually sits, but it is now deserted.

I feel sure that there ought to be a security person there, it’s very odd, and my feeling of foreboding increases as we pass through the golden gates to the lifts. Harry presses the nearest down button and a lift clatters into sight almost immediately, the golden grilles slide apart with a great, echoing clanking, and we dash inside. Harry stabs the number nine button, the grilles close with a bang, and the lift begins to descend, jangling and rattling. Everyone is silent for nerves are beginning to take over, yet when the lift halts, the cool female voice says, “Department of Mysteries,” and the grilles slide open again, we step out into the corridor where nothing is moving but the nearest torches, flickering in the rush of air from the lift.

“Let’s go,” Harry whispers, and he leads the way down the corridor, Luna right behind him, gazing around with her mouth slightly open.

“Okay, listen,” says Harry, stopping again within six feet of the door. “Maybe . . . maybe a couple of people should stay here as a — as a lookout, and —”

“And how’re we going to let you know something’s coming?” asks Ginny, her eyebrows raised. “You could be miles away.”

“We’re coming with you, Harry,” says Neville.

“This isn’t just only your fight.” Ariana tells him solemnly.

“Let’s get on with it,” says Ron firmly.

With a sigh of defeat Harry turns and walks towards the door opens for him. We all follow him over the threshold. Okay creepy doors that open on their own not a good sign.

They are standing in a large, circular room. Everything in here is black including the floor and ceiling — identical, unmarked, handle-less black doors are set at intervals all around the black walls, interspersed with branches of candles whose flames burn blue, their cool, shimmering light reflecting in the shining marble floor so that it looks as though there is dark water underfoot.

“Someone shut the door,” Harry mutters.

Neville obeys it. Without the long chink of light from the torch-lit corridor behind us, the place becames so dark that for a moment the only things we can see are the bunches of shivering blue flames on the walls and their ghostly reflections in the floor below.

I move closer to Luka and Ariana not wanting to be separated from them again now that we’re inside here. Too many of the people who are important to me are in here.

Suddenly there is a great rumbling noise and the candles begin to move sideways. The circular wall is rotating.

Hermione grabs Harry’s arm as though frightened the floor might move too, but it does not. For a few seconds the blue flames around us are blurring to resemble neon lines as the wall speeds around and then, quite as suddenly as it started, the rumbling stops and everything becomes stationary once again. This feels like a game, and suddenly we’re stuck playing it.

“What was that about?” whispers Ron fearfully.

“I think it was to stop us knowing which door we came in from,” says Ginny in a hushed voice.

“It worked.” I say just as quietly.

I can no sooner have picked the exit from the other doors than locate an ant upon the jet-black floor. Meanwhile, the door through which we need to proceed could be any of the dozen surrounding us. A game.

“How’re we going to get back out?” says Neville uncomfortably.

“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” says Harry forcefully. “We won’t need to get out till we’ve found Sirius —”

“Don’t go calling for him, though!” Hermione says urgently.

“Where do we go, then, Harry?” Ron asks.

“I don’t —” Harry begins. He swallows. “In the dreams I went through the door at the end of the corridor from the lifts into a dark room — that’s this one — and then I went through another door into a room that kind of . . . glitters. We should try a few doors,” he says hastily. “I’ll know the right way when I see it. C’mon.”

He marches straight at the door now facing him, the rest of us following close behind him, set his left hand against its cool, shining surface, raises his wand, ready to strike the moment it opens, and pushes. It swings open easily.

After the darkness of the first room, the lamps hanging low on golden chains from this ceiling give the impression that this long rectangular room is much brighter, though there are no glittering, shimmering lights such as Harry describes seeing in his dreams. The place is quite empty except for a few desks and, in the very middle of the room, an enormous glass tank of deep-green water, big enough for all of us to swim in, which contains a number of pearly white objects that are drifting around lazily in the liquid.

“What’re those things?” whispers Ron.

“Dunno,” says Harry.

“Are they fish?” breathes Ginny.

“Aquavirius maggots!” says Luna excitedly. “Dad said the Ministry were breeding —”

“No,” says Hermione. She sounds odd. She moves forward to look through the side of the tank. “They’re brains.”

“Brains?”

“Yes . . . I wonder what they’re doing with them?”

“Okay I’m officially calling this our creepiest and worst adventure ever.” I say with a shiver running down my spine.

“Isn’t this illegal?” Ariana asks with a repulsed look on her face. Luka takes a step closer so that he’s level with Hermione.

“I’ve never come across a law talking about experimentation on human brains before.” He says distractedly. Well that’s good to know— I think?

Glimmering eerily they drift in and out of sight in the depths of the green water, looking something like slimy cauliflowers.

“Let’s get out of here,” says Harry. “This isn’t right, we need to try another door —”

“There are doors here too,” says Ron, pointing around the walls.

“In my dream I went through that dark room into the second one,” he says. “I think we should go back and try from there.”

So we hurry back into the dark, circular room; the ghostly shapes of the brains are now swimming before my eyes.

“Wait!” says Hermione sharply, as Luna makes to close the door of the brain room behind us. “Flagrate!”

She draws with her wand in midair and a fiery X appears on the door. No sooner has the door clicked shut behind us than there is a great rumbling, and once again the wall begins to revolve very fast, but now there is a great red-gold blur in amongst the faint blue, and when all becomes still again, the fiery cross still burns, showing the door we have already tried.

“Good thinking,” says Harry. “Okay, let’s try this one —”

Again he strides directly at the door facing him and pushes it open, his wand still raised, the rest of us again at his heels.

This room is larger than the last, dimly lit and rectangular, and the center of it is sunken, forming a great stone pit some twenty feet below us. We are standing on the topmost tier of what seems to be stone benches running all around the room and descending in steep steps like an amphitheater. There is a raised stone dais in the center of the lowered floor, and upon this dais stands a stone archway that looks so ancient, cracked, and crumbling that I am amazed the thing is still standing.  Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the archway is empty.

“Who’s there?” says Harry, jumping down onto the bench below. There is no answering voice.

“Careful!” whispers Hermione.

Harry scrambles down the benches one by one until he reaches the stone bottom of the sunken pit and we follow behind him cautiously. His footsteps echo loudly as he walks slowly towards the dais. The pointed archway looks much taller from where I stand now than when I was looking down on it from above.

“Sirius?” Harry speaks again, and I know he must be going crazy.

“Harry…” I say starting to get seriously creeped out by this room.

“Let’s go,” calls Hermione from halfway up the stone steps. “This isn’t right, Harry, come on, let’s go . . .”

I agree with that and I make my way back up to the rest of the group. I don’t like what’s going on down there even though there’s noting to be seen.

It takes a few minutes but Hermione’s able to get Harry to come back to us.

Once they’re back up here I give Hermione a look. “He thinks that he can hear and see people in the arch.” She tells me softly. “Luna can sense it too.”

Okay well that must be something to do with the dead then, since we can’t see it.

“What d’you reckon that arch was?” Harry asks Hermione as we regained the dark circular room.

“I don’t know, but whatever it was, it was dangerous,” she says firmly, again inscribing a fiery cross upon the door.

Once more the walls spin and become still again. Harry approaches a door at random and pushes. It does not move.

“What’s wrong?” says Hermione.

“It’s . . . locked . . .” says Harry, throwing his weight at the door, but it does not budge.

“This is it, then, isn’t it?” says Ron excitedly, joining Harry in the attempt to force the door open. “Bound to be!”

“I would try a spell instead of breaking yourselves.” I say trying to stop their excited stupidity before one of them gets hurt.

“Get out of the way!” says Hermione sharply. She points her wand at the place where a lock would have been on an ordinary door and says, “Alohomora!”

Nothing happens.

“Sirius’s knife!” says Harry, and he pulls it out from inside his robes and slides it into the crack between the door and the wall. We all watch eagerly as he runs it from top to bottom, withdraws it, and then flings his shoulder again at the door. It remains as firmly shut as ever. What is more, when Harry looks down at the knife, he sees that the blade has melted.

“Right, we’re leaving that room,” says Hermione decisively.

“But what if that’s the one?” says Ron, staring at it with a mixture of apprehension and longing.

“It can’t be, Harry could get through all the doors in his dream,” says Hermione, marking the door with another fiery cross as Harry replaces the now-useless handle of Sirius’s knife in his pocket.

“I’m beginning to really hate this place.” I comment and everyone nods along in agreement.

“You know what could be in there?” says Luna eagerly, as the wall starts to spin yet again.

“Something blibbering, no doubt,” says Hermione under her breath, and Neville gives a nervous little laugh.

The wall slides back to a halt and Harry, with a feeling of increasing desperation, pushes the next door open.

“This is it!”

Okay now we’re talking.

The room is filled with beautiful, dancing, diamond-sparkling light. As my eyes become more accustomed to the brilliant glare I see clocks gleaming from every surface, large and small, grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between the bookcases or standing on desks ranging the length of the room, so that a busy, relentless ticking fills the place like thousands of minuscule, marching footsteps. The source of the dancing, diamond-bright light is a towering crystal bell jar that stands at the far end of the room.

“This way!”

Harry leads the way forward down the narrow space between the lines of the desks, heading, as he has done in his dream, for the source of the light towards the crystal bell jar quite as tall as he is that stands on a desk and appears to be full of a billowing, glittering wind.

“Oh look!” says Ginny, as we draw nearer, pointing at the very heart of the bell jar.

Drifting along in the sparkling current inside is a tiny, jewel-bright egg. As it rises in the jar it cracks open and a hummingbird emerges, which is carried to the very top of the jar, but as it falls on the draft, its feathers become bedraggled and damp again, and by the time it has been borne back to the bottom of the jar it has been enclosed once more in its egg.

“Keep going!” says Harry sharply, because Ginny shows signs of wanting to stop and watch the egg’s progress back into a bird.

“You dawdled enough by that old arch!” she says crossly, but follows him past the bell jar to the only door behind it.

“I don’t like these rooms.” Ariana tells me lowly from my left. I glance over at her and see the cautious and upset look on her face. I can’t help but agree with that. Everything in this department is kept away from society for a reason.

“This is it,” Harry says again. “It’s through here —”

He glanced around at us all. We have our wands out and look suddenly serious and anxious. He looks back at the door and pushes. It swings open.

We are there, we have found the place: high as a church and full of nothing but towering shelves covered in small, dusty, glass orbs. They glimmer dully in the light issuing from more candle brackets set at intervals along the shelves. Like those in the circular room behind us, their flames are burning blue. The room is very cold.

I really don’t like this place one little bit.

“You said it was row ninety-seven,” whispers Hermione.

“Yeah,” breathes Harry, looking up at the end of the closest row. Beneath the branch of blue-glowing candles protruding from it glimmers the silver figure 53.

“We need to go right, I think,” whispers Hermione, squinting to the next row.  “Yes . . . that’s fifty-four. . . .”

“Keep your wands out,” Harry says softly. As if I was going to put my wand away in this creepy room.

We creep forward, staring behind us as they go on down the long alleys of shelves, the farther ends of which are in near total darkness. Tiny, yellowing labels have been stuck beneath each glass orb on the shelf. Some of them have a weird, liquid glow; others are as dull and dark within as blown light bulbs.

They pass row eighty-four . . . eighty-five . . . I’m listening for any sort of noise that could indicate that an attacker is upon us.

“Ninety-seven!” whispers Hermione.

We stand grouped around the end of the row, gazing down the alley beside it. There is nobody here.

“He’s right down at the end,” says Harry, whose mouth has become slightly dry. “You can’t see properly from here . . .”

And he leads us forward, between the towering rows of glass balls, some of which glow softly as we pass. . . .

“He should be near here,” whispers Harry. “Anywhere here . . . really close . . .”

“Harry?” says Hermione tentatively. Harry looks close to breaking.

“Somewhere about . . . here . . .” he says.

They have reached the end of the row and emerge into more dim candlelight. There is nobody there at all. All is echoing, dusty silence.

“Harry…” I say not wanting to bring up my point again from earlier today.

“He might be . . .” Harry whispers hoarsely, peering down the alley next door. “Or maybe . . .” He hurries to look down the one beyond that.

“Harry?” says Hermione again.

“What?” he snarls.

“I . . . I don’t think Sirius is here.”

Nobody speaks.

Harry runs around looking down aisle after aisle. There is no sign of Sirius anywhere, nor any hint of a struggle.

“Harry?” Ron calls.

“What?”

“It’s — it’s got your name on,” says Ron. I turn to see that he is looking at one of the orbs as Harry pushes forwards to him.

It is very dusty and appears not to have been touched for many years.

“My name?” says Harry blankly.

He steps forward. In spidery writing is written a date of some sixteen years previously, and below that:

  1. P. T. to A. P. W. B. D.



Dark Lord

and (?) Harry Potter

Harry stares at it.

“What is it?” Ron asks, sounding unnerved. “What’s your name doing down here?”

He glances along at the other labels on that stretch of shelf.

“I’m not here,” he says, sounding perplexed. “None of the rest of us are here . . .”

“I don’t like this.” I say taking a step back from the shelf and bump into my brother.

“Harry, I don’t think you should touch it,” says Hermione sharply, as he stretches out his hand.

“Why not?” he says. “It’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”

“Don’t, Harry,” says Neville suddenly. Harry looks around at him. Neville’s round face is shining slightly with sweat. He looks as though he cannot take much more suspense.

“It’s got my name on it,” says Harry.

Harry closes his hand around the dusty surface. I can’t help but feel like he’s just done something horribly wrong.

Nothing whatsoever happens though. We move in closer around Harry, gazing at the orb as he brushes it free of the clogging dust.

And then, from right behind us, a drawling voice says, “Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.”

Didn’t I say this was going to end badly?


	31. Beyond the Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 31- Beyond the Veil

 

Black shapes are emerging out of thin air all around us, blocking our way left and right; eyes glint through slits in hoods, a dozen lit wand-tips are pointing directly at our hearts. Ginny gives a gasp of horror. I clench my free hand into a fist and grip my wand tighter.

“To me, Potter,” repeats the drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy as he holds out his hand, palm up.

We are trapped and they know it. Harry led us right to them.

“To me,” says Malfoy yet again.

“Where’s Sirius?” Harry says.

Several of the Death Eaters laugh. A harsh female voice from the midst of the shadowy figures to my left says triumphantly, “The Dark Lord always knows!”

“Always,” echoes Malfoy softly. “Now, give me the prophecy, Potter.”

“I want to know where Sirius is!”

“I want to know where Sirius is!” mimics the woman to my left.

She and her fellow Death Eaters have closed in so that they are mere feet away from us, the light from their wands dazzling my eyes. I reach out with my free hand and pull Ginny in closer to us and slightly behind Luka and me. It shows how much this situation scares her for she does not complain about being babied.

“You’ve got him,” says Harry. “He’s here. I know he is.”

“The little baby woke up fwightened and fort what it dweamed was twoo,” says the woman in a horrible, mock-baby voice. I see Ron stir beside Harry.

“Don’t do anything,” Harry mutters. “Not yet —”

The woman who mimicked him lets out a raucous scream of laughter.

“You hear him? You hear him? Giving instructions to the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!”

“Oh, you don’t know Potter as I do, Bellatrix,” says Malfoy softly. “He has a great weakness for heroics; the Dark Lord understands this about him. Now give me the prophecy, Potter.”

“I know Sirius is here,” says Harry. “I know you’ve got him!”

More of the Death Eaters laugh, though the woman still laughs loudest of all.

“Harry look at them. Sirius is not here, if he was they would flaunt him… t-they tricked you Harry.” I say softly flicking my gaze over to him shortly before back to the cloaked figures in front of us.

“… I would know that voice anywhere… its young but still has the brash, bold, quality that grated my nerves so… she looks so spitting of her as well…” One of the cloaked and masked Death Eaters takes a step forward and I feel like a bucket of icty water has just been dumped over me.

“You.” I breathe, my hand beginning to shake. Luka suddenly comes up beside me pointing his wand at the figure and holding his other arm out in front of me.

“Bastard!” He growls, I yank on Luka’s arm trying to stop him from doing something rash. I see Ariana slowly pull Luka back with me. Augustus is here in front of us, but we have bigger problems here than starting preemptive fights.

“Not now Augutus we’re here for the Dark Lord’s bidding, not your own personal vendetta with the dragon brats.” Lucius drawls and reluctantly Augustus falls back a step next to who is undoubtedly Bellatrix, since she steps closer to him.

“It’s time you learned the difference between life and dreams, Potter,” says Malfoy. “Now give me the prophecy, or we start using wands.”

“Go on, then,” says Harry, raising his own wand to chest height. As he does, the eight wands of the rest of us rise on either side of him.

But the Death Eaters do not strike.

“Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt,” says Malfoy coolly.

It is Harry’s turn to laugh.

“Yeah, right!” he says. “I give you this — prophecy, is it? And you’ll just let us skip off home, will you?”

The words are hardly out of his mouth when the female Death Eater shrieks, “Accio Proph —”

Harry is just ready for her. He shouts “Protego!” before she has finished her spell, and though the glass sphere slips to the tips of his fingers he manages to cling on to it.

“Oh, he knows how to play, little bitty baby Potter,” she says, her mad eyes staring through the slits in her hood. “Very well, then —”

“I TOLD YOU, NO!” Lucius Malfoy roars at the woman. “If you smash it — !”

The woman steps forward, away from her fellows, and pulls off her hood. Azkaban has hollowed Bellatrix Black’s face, making it gaunt and skull-like, but it is alive with a feverish, fanatical glow.

“You need more persuasion?” she says, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Very well — take the smallest one,” she orders the Death Eaters beside her. “Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I’ll do it.”

   No way in hell is that going to happen. Everyone but Harry closes in around Ginny. Harry steps sideways so that he is right in front of her, the prophecy held up to his chest.

“You’ll have to smash this if you want to attack any of us,” he tells Bellatrix. “I don’t think your boss will be too pleased if you come back without it, will he?”

She did not move; she merely stares at him, the tip of her tongue moistening her thin mouth.

“So,” says Harry, “what kind of prophecy are we talking about anyway?”

Harry seems to be trying the stalling approach.

“What kind of prophecy?” repeats Bellatrix, the grin fading from her face. “You jest, Harry Potter.”

“Nope, not jesting,” says Harry, his eyes flicking from Death Eater to Death Eater, looking for a weak link, a space through which we can escape. “How come Voldemort wants it?”

Several of the Death Eaters let out low hisses.

“You dare speak his name?” whispers Bellatrix.

“Yeah,” says Harry, maintaining his tight grip on the glass ball, expecting another attempt to bewitch it from him. “Yeah, I’ve got no problem saying Vol —”

“Shut your mouth!” Bellatrix shrieks. “You dare speak his name with your unworthy lips, you dare besmirch it with your half-blood’s tongue, you dare —”

“Did you know he’s a half-blood too?” says Harry recklessly. Hermione gives a little moan at that. Antagonizing Death Eaters isn’t smart. “Voldemort? Yeah, his mother was a witch but his dad was a Muggle — or has he been telling you lot he’s pureblood?”

“STUPEF —”

“NO!”

A jet of red light shoots from the end of Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand, but Malfoy deflects it. His spell causes hers to hit the shelf a foot to the left of Harry and several of the glass orbs there shatter.

Two figures, pearly white as ghosts, fluid as smoke, unfurl themselves from the fragments of broken glass upon the floor and each begin to speak. Their voices vie with each other, so that only fragments of what they are saying can be heard over Malfoy and Bellatrix’s shouts.

“. . . at the Solstice will come a new . . .” says the figure of an old, bearded man.

“DO NOT ATTACK! WE NEED THE PROPHECY!”

“He dared — he dares —” shrieks Bellatrix incoherently. Augustus still hooded takes hold of her arm. “— He stands there — filthy half-blood —”

“WAIT UNTIL WE’VE GOT THE PROPHECY!” bawls Malfoy.

“. . . and none will come after . . .” says the figure of a young woman.

The two figures that have burst from the shattered spheres melt into thin air. Nothing remains of them or their erstwhile homes but fragments of glass upon the floor.

“You haven’t told me what’s so special about this prophecy I’m supposed to be handing over,” Harry says, playing for time. He moves his foot slowly sideways, feeling around for someone else’s.

“Do not play games with us, Potter,” says Malfoy.

“I’m not playing games,” says Harry, half his mind on the conversation, half on his wandering foot. And then he finds someone’s toes and presses down upon them. Those toes just happened to be mine, and I suck in a sharp breath trying not to wince.

“What?” I whisper.

“Dumbledore never told you that the reason you bear that scar was hidden in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries?” says Malfoy sneeringly.

“I — what?” says Harry. “What about my scar?”

“What?” I whisper a little more urgently seeing Harry become distracted.

“Can this be?” says Malfoy, sounding maliciously delighted; some of the Death Eaters are laughing again, and under cover of their laughter, Harry hisses to me, moving his lips as little as possible, “Smash shelves —”

“Dumbledore never told you?” Malfoy repeats. “Well, this explains why you didn’t come earlier, Potter, the Dark Lord wondered why —”

“— when I say go —”

“— you didn’t come running when he showed you the place where it was hidden in your dreams. He thought natural curiosity would make you want to hear the exact wording . . .”

“Did he?” says Harry. I start quietly and inconspicuously passing along the plan while Harry distracts the Death Eaters. “So he wanted me to come and get it, did he? Why?”

“Why?” Malfoy sounds incredulously delighted. “Because the only people who are permitted to retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, Potter, are those about whom it was made, as the Dark Lord discovered when he attempted to use others to steal it for him.”

“And why did he want to steal a prophecy about me?”

“About both of you, Potter, about both of you . . . Haven’t you ever wondered why the Dark Lord tried to kill you as a baby?”

Okay this is getting interesting.

“Someone made a prophecy about Voldemort and me?” Harry says quietly, gazing at Lucius Malfoy, his fingers tightening over the warm glass sphere in his hand. “And he’s made me come and get it for him? Why couldn’t he come and get it himself?”

“Get it himself?” shrieks Bellatrix on a cackle of mad laughter. “The Dark Lord, walk into the Ministry of Magic, when they are so sweetly ignoring his return? The Dark Lord, reveal himself to the Aurors, when at the moment they are wasting their time on my dear cousin?”

“So he’s got you doing his dirty work for him, has he?” says Harry. “Like he tried to get Sturgis to steal it — and Bode?”

“Very good, Potter, very good . . .” says Malfoy slowly. “But the Dark Lord knows you are not unintell —”

“NOW!” yells Harry.

Eight different bellow “REDUCTO!” Eight curses fly in five different directions and the shelves opposite them explode as they hit. The towering structure sway as a hundred glass spheres burst apart, pearly-white figures unfurled into the air and float there, their voices echoing from who knows what long-dead past amid the torrent of crashing glass and splintered wood now raining down upon the floor —

“RUN!” Harry yells, and as the shelves sway precariously and more glass spheres began to pour from above, he seizes a handful of Hermione’s robes and drags her forward, one arm over his head as chunks of shelf and shards of glass thundered down upon us. I grab hold of Ariana and Luka and start after them. A Death Eater lunges forward through the cloud of dust and I elbow him hard in the masked face.  We are all yelling, there are cries of pain, thunderous crashes as the shelves collapse upon themselves, weirdly echoing fragments of the Seers unleashed from their spheres —

I find the way ahead clear and see Ron, Ginny, and Luna sprint past us, their arms over their heads. Something heavy strikes me on the side of the face but I merely duck his head and sprint onward; a hand catches me by the shoulder; I hear Ariana shout “Stupefy!” and the hand releases me at once.

We are at the end of row ninety-seven; we turn right and begin to sprint in earnest. I can hear footsteps right behind us, and Hermione’s voice in front of us urging Neville on. The door through which we have come is ajar straight ahead, I can see the glittering light of the bell jar, we pelt through it, once we’re all in Luka throws the door shut behind us.

“Colloportus!” gasps Hermione and the door seals itself with an odd squelching noise.

“Where — where are the others?” gasps Harry.

I thought that Ron, Luna, and Ginny were ahead of us, that they are waiting in this room, but there is nobody there.

“They must have gone the wrong way!” whispers Hermione, terror in her face.

“We need to find them!” Luka and I say immediately worried about our siblings.

“Listen!” whispers Neville.

Footsteps and shouts echo from behind the door we have just sealed. We near the door to listen and hear Lucius Malfoy roar: “Leave Nott, leave him, I say, the Dark Lord will not care for Nott’s injuries as much as losing that prophecy — Jugson, come back here, we need to organize! We’ll split into pairs and search, and don’t forget, be gentle with Potter until we’ve got the prophecy, you can kill the others if necessary — Bellatrix, Augustus, you take the left, Crabbe, Rabastan, go right — Jugson, Dolohov, the door straight ahead — Macnair and Avery, through here — Rookwood, over there — Mulciber, come with me!”

“What do we do?” Hermione asks Harry, trembling from head to foot. Ariana is pale but there is a grave look on her face as she clutches her wand tighter. I look down at my hands.

“I can try to use my magic…” I say uncertainly. Five heads turn to look at me sharply.

“Well, we don’t stand here waiting for them to find us, for a start,” says Harry. “Let’s get away from this door . . .”

We run, quietly as we can, past the shimmering bell jar where the tiny egg is hatching and unhatching, towards the exit into the circular hallway at the far end of the room. We are almost there when I hear something large and heavy collide with the door Hermione charmed shut.

“Stand aside!” says a rough voice. “Alohomora!”

As the door flies open, Harry, Hermione, Neville, Ariana, Luka, and I dive under desks. We can see the bottom of the two Death Eaters’ robes drawing nearer, their feet moving rapidly.

“They might’ve run straight through to the hall,” says the rough voice.

“Check under the desks,” says another.

Harry sees the knees of the Death Eaters bend. Poking his wand out from under the desk he shouts, “STUPEFY!”

A jet of red light hits the nearest Death Eater; he falls backwards into a grandfather clock and knocks it over. The second Death Eater, however, leaps aside to avoid Harry’s spell and now points his own wand at Hermione, who has crawled out from under the desk to get a better aim. I crawl out of my own desk and tackle Hermione out of the way.

“Avada —”

Harry launches himself across the floor and grabs the Death Eater around the knees, causing him to topple and his aim to go awry. Neville overturns his desk in his anxiety to help; pointing his wand wildly at the struggling pair he cries,  “EXPELLIARMUS!”

I help Hermione crawl under and desk and watch as Ariana and my brother provide a barrage of fire casting any and every jinx they can think of to ward off the two Death Eaters.

“Get out of the way, Harry!” yells Neville, clearly determined to repair the damage.

Harry flings himself sideways as Neville takes aim again and shouts, “STUPEFY!”

The jet of red light flies right over the Death Eater’s shoulder and hits a glass-fronted cabinet on the wall full of variously shaped hourglasses. The cabinet falls to the floor and bursts apart, glass flying everywhere, then springs back up onto the wall, fully mended, then falls down again, and shatters —

The Death Eater snatched up his wand, which lays on the floor beside the glittering bell jar. Harry ducks down behind another desk as the man turns — his mask has slipped so that he can not see, he rips it off with his free hand and shouts, “STUP —”

“STUPEFY!” I yell, having just caught up with them. The jet of red light hits the Death Eater in the middle of his chest; he freezes, his arm still raised, his wand falls to the floor with a clatter and he collapses backwards towards the bell jar. I expect to hear a clunk, for the man to hit solid glass and slide off the jar onto the floor, but instead, his head sinks through the surface of the bell jar as though it is nothing but a soap bubble and he comes to rest, sprawled on his back on the table, with his head lying inside the jar full of glittering wind.

“Accio Wand!” cries Hermione. Harry’s wand flies from a dark corner into her hand and she throws it to him. I nod to her as Luka and Ariana come over to us panting and looking grim.

“Thanks,” Harry says, “right, let’s get out of —”

“Look out!” says Neville, horrified, staring at the Death Eater’s head in the bell jar.

All six of us raise our wands again, but none of us strike. We are all gazing, openmouthed, appalled, at what is happening to the man’s head.

It is shrinking very fast, growing balder and balder, the black hair and stubble retracting into his skull, his cheeks smooth, his skull round and covered with a peachlike fuzz. . . .

A baby’s head now sits grotesquely on top of the thick, muscled neck of the Death Eater as he struggles to get up again. But even as we watch, our mouths open, the head begins to swell to its previous proportions again, thick black hair is sprouting from the pate and chin. . . .

“It’s time,” says Hermione in an awestruck voice. “Time . . .”

“That’s gross.” I say with a shiver.

The Death Eater shakes his ugly head again, trying to clear it, but before he can pull himself together again, it begins to shrink back to babyhood once more. . . .

There is a shout from a room nearby, then a crash and a scream.

“RON?” Harry yells, turning quickly from the monstrous transformation taking place before us. “GINNY? LUNA?”

“Harry!” Hermione screams.

The Death Eater has pulled his head out of the bell jar. His appearance is utterly bizarre, his tiny baby’s head bawling loudly while his thick arms flail dangerously in all directions, narrowly missing Harry, who ducks. Harry raises his wand but to my amazement Hermione seizes his arm.

“You can’t hurt a baby!”

“He’s a bad baby!” I say in disagreement.

There is no time to argue the point. I can hear more footsteps growing louder from the Hall of Prophecy we have just left and know, too late, that we ought not to have shouted and give away our position.

“Come on!” Harry says again, and leaving the ugly baby-headed Death Eater staggering behind us, we take off for the door that stands ajar at the other end of the room, leading back into the black hallway.

We have run halfway towards it when I see through the open door two more Death Eaters running across the black room towards us. Veering left we burst instead into a small, dark, cluttered office and slam the door behind us.

“Collo —” begins Hermione, but before she can complete the spell the door has burst open again and the two Death Eaters have come hurtling inside. With a cry of triumph, both yell, “IMPEDIMENTA!”

Harry, Hermione, Neville, Luka, Ariana, and I are all knocked backwards off our feet. Neville is thrown over the desk and disappears from view, Hermione smashes into a bookcase and was promptly deluged in a cascade of heavy books; the back of Harry’s head slams into the stone wall behind him, Luka goes flying into the desk, and Ariana is thrust back into me and we both collide heavily against the wall.

“WE’VE GOT HIM!” yells the Death Eater nearest Harry, “IN AN OFFICE OFF —”

“Silencio!” cries Hermione, and the man’s voice is extinguished. He continues to mouth through the hole in his mask, but no sound comes out; he is thrust aside by his fellow.

“Petrificus Totalus!” shouts Harry, as the second Death Eater raises his wand. His arms and legs snap together and he falls forward, facedown onto the rug at Harry’s feet, stiff as a board and unable to move at all.

“Well done, Ha —” I start.

But the Death Eater Hermione has just struck dumb makes a sudden slashing movement with his wand from which flies a streak of what looks like purple flame. My eyes widen and I start scrambling to her, but it passes right across Hermione’s chest; she gives a tiny “oh!” as though of surprise and then crumples onto the floor where she lays motionless.

That did not just happen.

“HERMIONE!” We cry but I look back at the Death Water.

Harry falls to his knees beside her as Neville crawls rapidly towards her from under the desk, his wand held up in front of him. The Death Eater kicks out hard at Neville’s head as he emerges — his foot broke Neville’s wand in two and connected with his face — Neville gave a howl of pain and recoils, clutching his mouth and nose. Luka growls and throws himself at the Death Eater. I see that the Death Eater has ripped off his mask and is pointing his wand directly at Luka, I recognize the long, pale, twisted face from the Daily Prophet: Antonin Dolohov, the wizard who murdered the Prewetts.

Dolohov grins. With his free hand, he points from the prophecy still clutched in Harry’s hand, to himself, then at Hermione. Though he can no longer speak his meaning could not have been clearer: Give me the prophecy, or he’ll get the same as her. . . .

“Like you won’t kill us all the moment I hand it over anyway!” says Harry.

I make up my mind right then, for he’s foolish enough to have his back to me.

“STUPEFY!” I shout and the red light hits his chest straight on sending him crashing back into the wall, with a sick thud.

Luka crashes to the ground. Neville, Ariana, Luka, and I rush over to Harry and Hermione.

“Hermione,” Harry says at once. “Hermione, wake up . . .”

“She has to be okay.” I mutter, and Ariana puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“We need to get her out of here. She needs hospital.” She says.

“Whaddid he do to her?” says Neville, crawling out from under the desk again to kneel at her other side, blood streaming from his rapidly swelling nose.

“I dunno . . .”

Neville gropes for Hermione’s wrist.

“Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is . . .”

Such a powerful wave of relief sweeps through me that for a moment I feel light-headed.

“She’s alive?”

“Yeah, I dink so . . .”

There is a pause in which we listen hard for the sounds of more footsteps, but all I can hear are the whimpers and blunderings of the baby Death Eater in the next room.

“Neville, we’re not far from the exit,” Harry whispers. “We’re right next to that circular room. . . . If we can just get you across it and find the right door before any more Death Eaters come, I’ll bet you can get Hermione up the corridor and into the lift. . . . Then you could find someone. . . . Raise the alarm . . .”

“And whad are you going do do?” says Neville, mopping his bleeding nose with his sleeve and frowning at Harry.

“I’ve got to find the others, I still have Jamie, Luka, and Ariana” says Harry.

“Well, I’b going do find dem wid you,” says Neville firmly.

“But Hermione —”

“We’ll dake her wid us,” says Neville firmly. “I’ll carry her — you’re bedder at fighding dem dan I ab —”

He stands up and seizes one of Hermione’s arms, glares at Harry, who hesitates, then grabs the other and helps hoist Hermione’s limp form over Neville’s shoulders.

“We have to hurry, who knows what’s happened to the others.” I say worriedly a bad feeling creeping its way up my spine. A light blue starts to glow around my hands.

“Wait,” says Harry, snatching up Hermione’s wand from the floor and shoving it into Neville’s hand, “you’d better take this . . .”

Neville kicks aside the broken fragments of his own wand as we walk slowly towards the door.

“My gran’s going do kill be,” says Neville thickly, blood spattering from his nose as he speaks, “dat was by dad’s old wand . . .”

Harry sticks his head out of the door and looks around cautiously. The baby-headed Death Eater is screaming and banging into things, toppling grandfather clocks and overturning desks, bawling and confused, while the glass cabinet that Harry now suspects had contained Time-Turners continues to fall, shatter, and repair itself on the wall behind them.

“He’s never going to notice us,” he whispers. “C’mon . . . keep close behind me . . .”

I bring up the rear of our procession telling myself to shake off the bad feeling and make sure that no one else can get hurt. I can’t lose anyone else.

We creep out of the office and back towards the door into the black hallway, which now seems completely deserted. We walk a few steps forward, Neville tottering slightly due to Hermione’s weight. The door of the Time Room swings shut behind us, and the walls begin to rotate once more. The recent blow on the back of Harry’s head seems to have unsteadied him. With a sinking heart I see that Hermione’s fiery crosses have faded from the doors.

“So which way d’you reck — ?”

But before we can make a decision as to which way to try, a door to our right springs open and three people fall out of it.

“Ron! Ginny!” I cry rushing forward to help Ginny before she collapses.

“Ron!” croaks Harry, dashing towards him. “Ginny — are you all — ?”

“Harry,” says Ron, giggling weakly, lurching forward, seizing the front of Harry’s robes and gazing at him with unfocused eyes. “There you are. . . . Ha ha ha . . . You look funny, Harry. . . . You’re all messed up . . .”

Ron’s face is very white and something dark is trickling from the corner of his mouth. Next moment his knees give way, but he still clutches the front of Harry’s robes, so that Harry is pulled into a kind of bow.

“Ginny?” Harry says fearfully. “What happened?”

Ginny shakes her head and sinks further into me, leaning on mefor support keeping off her ankle. “I think her ankle’s broken, I heard something crack,” whispers Luna, who is bending over her and who alone seemed to be unhurt. “Four of them chased us into a dark room full of planets, it was a very odd place, some of the time we were just floating in the dark —”

“Harry, we saw Uranus up close!” says Ron, still giggling feebly. “Get it, Harry? We saw Uranus — ha ha ha —”

“There’s something seriously wrong with him.” Luka says going over to help Harry stabilize Ron.

A bubble of blood grows at the corner of Ron’s mouth and bursts.

“Anyway, one of them grabbed Ginny’s foot, I used the Reductor Curse and blew up Pluto in his face, but . . .”

Luna gestures hopelessly at Ginny, who is breathing in a very shallow way, her eyes still closed.

“And what about Ron?” says Harry fearfully, as Ron continues to giggle, still hanging off the front of Harry’s robes.

“I don’t know what they hit him with,” says Luna sadly, “but he’s gone a bit funny, I could hardly get him along at all . . .”

“Harry,” says Ron, pulling Harry’s ear down to his mouth and still giggling weakly, “you know who this girl is, Harry? She’s Loony . . . Loony Lovegood . . . ha ha ha . . .”

Ariana is looking at all of us worriedly. Out of nine of us there are only five of us who are in any kind of fighting shape.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” says Harry firmly. “Luna, can you help Ginny? Jamie needs to fight.”

“Yes,” said Luna, sticking her wand behind her ear for safekeeping, putting an arm around Ginny’s waist and taking her weight from me.

“It’s only my ankle, I can do it myself!” says Ginny impatiently, but next moment she has collapsed sideways and grabs Luna for support. Harry pulls Ron’s arm over his shoulder. He looks around: We have a one-in-twelve chance of getting the exit right the first time —

He heaves Ron towards a door; we are within a few feet of it when another door across the hall bursts open and three Death Eaters speed into the hall, led by Bellatrix and I can recognize Augustus for his hood is gone, and his long blond hair is clearly visible. The fist in my gut tightens.

“There they are!” she shrieks.

Stunning Spells shoot across the room: Harry smashes his way through the door ahead, flings Ron unceremoniously from him, and ducks back to help Neville in with Hermione. Meanwhile Ariana, Luna, and I fight off the coming Death Eaters with Luka. We are all over the threshold just in time to slam the door against Bellatrix.

“Colloportus!” shouts Harry, and we hear three bodies slam into the door on the other side.

“It doesn’t matter!” says a man’s voice. “There are other ways in — WE’VE GOT THEM, THEY’RE HERE!”

I spin around. We are back in the Brain Room and, sure enough, there are doors all around the walls. I can hear footsteps in the hall behind us as more Death Eaters come running to join the first.

“Luna — Jamie — Ariana help me!”

The four of us tear around the room, sealing the doors as we go: Harry crashes into a table and rolls over the top of it in his haste to reach the next door.

“Colloportus!”

There were footsteps running along behind the doors; every now and then another heavy body will launch itself against one, so it creaks and shudders. Luna and Ariana are bewitching the doors along the opposite wall — then, as I reach the very top of the room, I hear Luna cry, “Collo — aaaaaaaaargh . . .”

I turn in time to see her flying through the air. Five Death Eaters are surging into the room through the door she did not reach in time; Luna hits a desk, slides over its surface and onto the floor on the other side where she lays sprawled, as still as Hermione.

That’s when shit hits the fan. The room is filled with flashing lights as Ariana, Luka, Neville, Harry, and I try to defend our position. I watch as Harry tries to deal with a confused Ron and the brain that’s trying to strangle him. I make my way closer to my brother and Ariana who are battling Bellatrix and Augustus.

“I’m finally going to get to finish what I started fifteen years ago! Too bad that Daniel won’t be here to see his precious kids taken from him!” Augustus snarls. What happens next is something that I’m not even sure that my mind can completely understand.

There’s a yell of “DIFFINDO!”

A greenish blue light streaks out of Augustus’ wand but Luka dodges out of the way in time but leaving Ariana’s flank exposed to the attack as she deflects a curse from Bellatrix. Without even thinking I propel myself into motion, there’s no time to cast a spell. With a great leap, I manage to get in front of her before the curse collides. With a strangled yell I fall to the ground as searing pain shoots through my body.

Ariana looks down at me with horror filled eyes as blood bubbles from my mouth, and seeps through the horribly long gash that spans my abdomen to my chest.

“JAMIE!” Luka roars.

“Merlin no.” Ariana breathes. She’s so distracted by me that the stunning spell Bellatrix shoots nails her, and Ariana falls to the ground beside me. He unfocused eyes are on me though. Every breath that I labor through is painful. I know that I’m losing far too much blood to be able to make it out of this room. The sound of fighting is going on around us, and I hear Harry’s desperate yells get farther away, and I know that he’s trying to lead the Death Eaters away from all of us who are injured.

Suddenly someone is crawling over to me as Ariana regains control of her muscles. Luka weakly pulls himself to my side. There’s blood running down the side of his face from his head, and his glasses are broken but he’s staring at me with a distraught expression on his face.

Suddenly his hands are pressing his robe down on my profusely bleeding wound, and I give a weak groan in response. The corners of my vision is already beginning to grow faint.

Ariana scrambles to his side and gives him her robe to apply pressure with as well. She’s scraped up but other than that she’s perfectly fine. “Why? Why did you do that?” She cries as tears stream down her face. She grips my hand weakly, and I don’t even have the strength left to return the gesture.

Everything is growing so cold, and the light in the room is dimming. Each shuttering ragged breath that I take is wet and gurgling. He must have nicked one of my lungs.

Suddenly there’s loud voices in our room. There are clocked people running around the room, and the relieved cries of my brother and Ariana echo around my head. Good they’ll be okay. They’ll be okay… that’s all I wanted…

With that one last relieving fact my eyes drift closed with the last thing I hear the unearthly cry from Ariana, “JAMIE!”


	32. The Second War Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 32- The Second War Begins

 

There is definitely something to say about dying. I had always feared that it would be very slow and extremely painful. So maybe my death was both of those things, but I had always thought that I would be freaking out about it until the very end. It wasn’t like that at all though. There was an almost liberating feeling about giving in and following the soft white light that began to surround me.

The only thing that I wasn’t expecting after that was to be uncomfortable. My wound still ached in my abdomen, and if anything back is sore from resting against something hard for so long. “Are you just going to lay there for the whole time you are in my presence?” A deep voice suddenly pops into my head.

What in Merlin’s name is he talking about? This is my head and since I’m dead, I can do whatever I want.

“Open your eyes Jamie.” The voice says again. With a groan I peel my eyes open into slits, shocked to see that the room comes to me in focus. Huh, this is strange? Slowly I pull myself up from my prone position, so that I’m sitting on the apparently stone floor. How in the world did I get here?

The walls around me are made of smooth gray stone, and there are brazens of fire on the walls, giving the room light. Slowly I push myself to my feet despite my discomfort, and turn to take in the room. There are two large long tables going down the sides of the room somewhat reminding me of Hogwarts. The difference between my school and this room is that here is missing two more house tables and a staff table as well.

The only object at the front of the room is a large and ornate wooden chair with a red velvet cushion upon which sits one of the most intimidating men that I have ever seen in my life. Even from his seated position I can tell that the man is tall based on his frame, he does not wear robes but a shining silver breastplate over a deep red tunic.

Draped over his shoulder regally is a deep almost blood red cape. When he shifts on his throne I can hear the soft clinking of chainmail. His boots and legs are covered with the same silver armor. Upon his left hand is a very large and ornate ring, and sitting atop his wavy black hair is the gleaming gold crown that resides in my family’s vault. At his hand is the legendary sword many tales Excalibur.

Shocked, that leads me to believe that this man sitting in front of me with his well managed beard and shockingly blue eyes is none other than King Arthur himself, the forefather of my entire family line.

“It’s a lot to take in at once is it not?” Arthur’s deep voice says. I nod my head faintly, trying to figure out how exactly I got here, and why oh why I’m standing in front of the greatest King who had ever lived?

“You’re… you’re Arthur Pendragon.” I say shakily. A smile turns up on the man’s lips and I swear that his eyes might have grown a shade bluer at the remark.

“That I am King Arthur, son of Uther and as some like to claim one of the greatest King’s to rule the land. I on the other hand, do not like to entertain gossip, that is more Merlin’s area of expertise.” He says jovially. I feel my eyes widen more at the manner in which this great man is talking to me.

“K-King Arthur… do you know why I’m here?” I ask unsurely. Arthur’s look turns solemn.

“First off Jamie we’re family so its just Arthur to you. Secondly, you’re here because technically… you died.” He says in a softer tone. I take a hesitant step back at that. So I did actually die. That doesn’t explain why I’m here with him though.

“Okay… but then why am I here with you Arthur?” I ask him. The King smiles again and raises his free hand to beckon me closer. Slowly I make my way up the few stone steps to him. He’s even more imposing up close.

“We are both here Jamie so that we can have a little talk before you go back. There is much that you need to know, but not much time in which to learn it. Battles have changed much since my time, but the principles behind them have stayed the same for the most time, greed and immorality against the rest of the good in the world.” Arthur tells me. I cock my head slightly trying to understand where he’s going with this.

“My bloodline has been in the thick of almost every major wizarding battle since Merlin first decided to bestow the powers of magic on me. I have been very proud of our family and how we have acted for centuries, but as all things must come to an end so must peace. Your uncle… he does not know that which he is seeking Jamie.” Arthur says sternly.

“What he’s seeking? He seems to be seeking the family’s money if nothing else Arthur. Why else would he kill his own father, and then my parents?” I ask hating the hurt that still runs through me upon saying such things.

“Not all that is powerful is residing in your vault underground Jamie. In our family strength and power runs in our very life force, our blood. In this world there are some things that cannot even be explained by magic… and I’m so sorry my dear that I cannot explain to you what it is.” He says sadly. I look up at him confused.

“But I don’t understand what is so powerful about just a little blood? There’s nothing special about Luka and I from the other students at Hogwarts. The only thing that’s different is our name.” I say trying to grasp what he’s saying.

The sad smile is still on Arthur’s face, and he heaves a small sigh. “You will learn with time Jamie. I haven’t sees someone as strong as you in a very long time. Just know this, you and your brother are making us all very proud.” With that statement he places his hand on mine, and there’s a bright flash of light, and Arthur disappears from view.

* * *

 

What in Merlin’s name just happened? Pain flares up in my abdomen and I can’t help but moan out in agony. What’s going on? I thought that your injuries weren’t supposed to hurt when you were dead. I would seriously hate to be the one exception to the rule. I don’t believe that I’ve been that bad a person in my lifetime.

I shift slightly and moan again as the pain intensifies. I use what seems like the last of my strength to pry open my heavy eyelids just a bit so I can see where exactly I am. My back is not killing me so it must not be a stone floor. What greets my eyes though is a white bed with a sheet pulled up over my chest.

The thing that is most shocking though is the tumble of blond hair that is resting on the edge of the mattress. Ariana? She’s okay. Wait, that means that I’m still alive! Pain shoots through me for the sudden movement. Ugh, so this is why everything still hurts so much.

Slowly I move my left arm so that I can reach out and touch the girl. I need to make sure that this isn’t actually a dream and that we’re both really here, safe. My fingertips brush against silky blond locks, and that touch is enough to jerk the girl awake. I feel bad for it wasn’t my intention of actually waking the girl.

Her brown eyes are ringed in red and bleary from the sleep that she was just in. After a few blinks those beautiful eyes fix on me. “J-Jamie?” She croaks in a hoarse whisper. I lift the corner of my mouth in smile. Her eyes are watering, and she has her hands clenched into fists by her side.

“Why… why you bloody stupid girl… why would you do that? You could have gotten yourself killed! What would I have done then, you stupid, stupid, stupid, girl!” Ariana rants still fairly quietly. I keep my eyes focused on her as she starts to fall apart in front of me.

“You could have died Jamie! Merlin you did die! I thought that I had lost you, why?” She cries. The sight in front of me is more painful than the wound tugging at me. With strength that I didn’t know that I possessed, I push myself upright, and lean closer to Ariana. The excruciating pain is worth the shocked look on her face.

“Why?” She asks tearfully. Just looking into those pain filled eyes makes my decision all the easier.

I lean forward the rest of the distance to her, and place my lips upon hers. It’s a soft kiss, almost chaste in a way. I close my eyes at the ungodly feeling of Ariana’s lips upon mine. I swear that I have never experienced anything better in my whole life. The pain becomes too much for me soon, and I have to draw away faster then I would like.

The expression on Ariana’s face can only be described as one of awe. “J-Jamie…” She breathes.

“Why? Because I love you, you fool. I would do anything for you.” I admit softly. Worry starts to bubble up in me. What if I said the wrong thing? I was only doing what Hermione was telling me to do, speak about my feelings. For a few moments Ariana and I just stare at each other brown eyes meeting blue.

I open my mouth to try and apologize when suddenly I’m occupied with something far better than an apology— another kiss from Ariana, and this time she’s the one kissing me. Ariana’s kiss is much stronger than mine was, and I can feel that there’s a definite difference about this one, she seems almost desperate. I feel her fingers thread into mine, and she grasps my hand for dear life tightly.

I begin to feel a little light headed from the lack of breathing but if this is the way I am to die, then there are definitely far worse ways to go. My pain flares up, and I wince having to break the kiss, and gulp some air into my lungs, while moving back into my reclined position. Ariana’s happy eyes start to fill with worry.

“Oh Merlin, did I hurt you? Is it bad? Do I need to get Madam Pomfrey?” She asks me desperately. As she moves to stand, I tug her hand back down, so that she’s beside me.

I tug on the hand that’s still tangled in hers, and slowly Ariana falls back into her seat. “I’m fine… actually I’ve never been better.” I say with what I’m sure is a goofy grin on my face. A blush appears on the Dumbledore’s face, but the huge smile that goes with it, makes me feel much better.

“You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say those words to me Jamie.” Ariana tells me. I raise an eyebrow at that deciding to have a little fun with the girl.

“What? That I’m fine?” I say feigning a clueless look. Ariana narrows her eyes at me, and I can’t help but think about how cute she looks.

“No, about the part where you said that you love me. I’m not sure how much I care for being called a fool, but I definitely know that I have loved you for a very long time Jamie Pendragon, and there will be an even longer time for us to sort everything out.” She says finishing with a tender look at me. No one has ever looked at me like I was so valuable to them before, and it’s a feeling that I could definitely get used to.

“FINALLY!” A loud exclamation breaks the two of us out of our own little world. I jerk my head around to find a very elated, and amused Ginny grinning at us from the bed next to mine. Her bad foot is propped up, and her coloring looks much better than before.

Grumbles and moans from the other people in the hospital wing come for Ginny has surely woken everyone else up now. I feel heat rush to my cheeks at the triumphant look on my sister’s face. I glance at Ariana, and though she’s blushing all I see is a happy and slightly indulgent smile on her face.

I wouldn’t have this moment any other way.

* * *

 HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS

 

In a brief statement Friday night, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned to this country and is active once more.

“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord — well, you know who I mean — is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe that the dementors are currently taking direction from Lord — Thingy.”

“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defense that will be delivered free to all Wizarding homes within the coming month.”

The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and alarm from the Wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was “no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumors that You-Know-Who is operating amongst us once more.”

“Details of the events that led to the Ministry turnaround are still hazy, though it is believed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening.

Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards, and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was unavailable for comment last night. He has insisted for a year that You-Know-Who was not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power. Meanwhile the Boy Who Lived —”

 

“There you are, Harry, I knew they’d drag you into it somehow,” says Hermione, looking over the top of the paper at him. I shrug my shoulders as I look over the Chocolate Frog card that I got with a wry smile, Merlin.

We are in the hospital wing still. Harry is sitting on the end of Ron’s bed and they are both listening to Hermione read the front page of the Sunday Prophet. Ginny, whose ankle has been mended in a trice by Madam Pomfrey, is curled up at the foot of my bed (which has been moved next to Hermione’s); Neville, whose nose has likewise been returned to its normal size and shape, is in a chair between Ron and Hermione’s beds; and Luna, who has dropped in to visit clutching the latest edition of The Quibbler, is reading the magazine upside down and apparently not taking in a word Hermione is saying.

“He’s ‘the Boy Who Lived’ again now, though, isn’t he?” says Ron darkly. “Not such a show-off maniac anymore, eh?”

Luka rolls his eyes from his chair over by Ron’s side. It hurts a little that he’s all the way over there, but I can understand the need for some time with him. It’s not everyday that one gets a shock like he did a few days ago.

Ron helps himself to a handful of Chocolate Frogs from the immense pile on his bedside cabinet, throws a few to Harry, Ginny, Neville, and me and rips off the wrapper of his own with his teeth. There are still deep welts on his forearms where the brain’s tentacles wrapped around him (I still can’t get over the fact that he was attacked by a brain). According to Madam Pomfrey, thoughts can leave deeper scarring than almost anything else, though since she has started applying copious amounts of Dr. Ubbly’s Oblivious Unction, there seems to be some improvement.

“Yes, they’re very complimentary about you now, Harry,” says Hermione, now scanning down the article. “‘A lone voice of truth . . . perceived as unbalanced, yet never wavered in his story . . . forced to bear ridicule and slander . . . ’ Hmmm,” says Hermione, frowning, “I notice they don’t mention the fact that it was them doing all the ridiculing and slandering, though . . .”

“Why would they? Grownups hate when they’re wrong.” I say biting off the head of my frog and watching it with amusement. Ginny is playing with hers in front of me letting it escape, and then catching it seconds later.

I have been getting better slowly but surely. I had lost a lot of blood Madam Pomfrey said— too much. It was a miracle that I was still alive when they got me to her. I should be able to be free of here soon though.

Hermione winces slightly and puts a hand to her ribs. The curse Dolohov used on her, though less effective than it would have been had he been able to say the incantation aloud, has nevertheless caused, in Madam Pomfrey’s words, “quite enough damage to be going on with.” Hermione is having to take ten different types of potion every day and although she is improving greatly, and is already bored with the hospital wing.

“‘You-Know-Who’s Last Attempt to Take Over, pages two to four, What the Ministry Should Have Told Us, page five, Why Nobody Listened to Albus Dumbledore, pages six to eight, Exclusive Interview with Harry Potter, page nine . . .’ Well,” says Hermione, folding up the newspaper and throwing it aside, “it’s certainly given them lots to write about. And that interview with Harry isn’t exclusive, it’s the one that was in The Quibbler months ago . . .”

“Daddy sold it to them,” says Luna vaguely, turning a page of The Quibbler. “He got a very good price for it too, so we’re going to go on an expedition to Sweden this summer and see if we can catch a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

Hermione seems to struggle with herself for a moment, then says, “That sounds lovely.”

I catch Ginny and Harry’s glancing at each other then away quickly, grinning. Oh those two are so perfect for each other. I glance at the doors to the hospital wing silently willing them to open and admit Ariana. She is talking with her grandfather today, so I’m slightly worried.

“So anyway,” says Hermione, sitting up a little straighter and wincing again, “what’s going on in school?”

“Well, Flitwick’s got rid of Fred and George’s swamp,” says Ginny. “He did it in about three seconds. But he left a tiny patch under the window and he’s roped it off —”

“Why?” says Hermione, looking startled.

“Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic,” says Ginny, shrugging.

“I think he left it as a monument to Fred and George,” says Ron through a mouthful of chocolate. “They sent me all these, you know,” he tells Harry, pointing at the small mountain of Frogs beside him. “Must be doing all right out of that joke shop, eh?”

Hermione looks rather disapproving and asks, “So has all the trouble stopped now Dumbledore’s back?”

“They should.” A new voice says and I look up with a beaming smile as the youngest Dumbledore joins us again. She makes her way over to my bedside with a smile, and kisses me on the cheek. I feel heat rise to my cheeks but I never stop smiling.

“Get a room!” Ginny cries, and I shove my foot into her side, causing her to cry out in giggles.

“Yes,” says Neville, “everything’s settled right back down again with Dumbledore.”

“I s’pose Filch is happy, is he?” asks Ron, propping a Chocolate Frog card featuring Dumbledore against his water jug.

“Not at all,” says Ginny recovering from my attack. “He’s really, really miserable, actually . . .” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “He keeps saying Umbridge was the best thing that ever happened to Hogwarts . . .”

“Best thing my arse.” I mumble darkly, and I’m happy when Ariana threads our fingers together again, and runs her thumb over the scaring on my hand, ‘I must control my temper’. I still hate that we have to share a room with her.

All nine of us look around. Professor Umbridge is lying in a bed opposite us, gazing up at the ceiling. Dumbledore strode alone into the forest to rescue her from the centaurs. How he did it — how he emerged from the trees supporting Professor Umbridge without so much as a scratch on him — nobody knows, and Umbridge is certainly not telling. Since she returned to the castle she has not, as far as any of us know, uttered a single word. Nobody really knows what is wrong with her either. Her usually neat mousy hair is very untidy and there are bits of twig and leaf in it, but otherwise she seems to be quite unscathed.

“Madam Pomfrey says she’s just in shock,” whispers Hermione.

“Sulking, more like,” says Ginny.

“Yeah, she shows signs of life if you do this,” says Ron, and with his tongue he makes soft clip-clopping noises. Umbridge sits bolt upright, looking wildly around.

“Anything wrong, Professor?” calls Madam Pomfrey, poking her head around her office door.

“No . . . no . . .” says Umbridge, sinking back into her pillows, “no, I must have been dreaming . . .”

Hermione, Ginny, and I muffle our laughter in the bedclothes.

“Speaking of centaurs,” says Hermione, when she has recovered a little, “who’s Divination teacher now? Is Firenze staying?”

“He’s got to,” says Harry, “the other centaurs won’t take him back, will they?”

“It looks like he and Trelawney are both going to teach,” says Ginny.

“Bet Dumbledore wishes he could’ve got rid of Trelawney for good,” says Ron, now munching on his fourteenth Frog. “Mind you, the whole subject’s useless if you ask me, Firenze isn’t a lot better . . .”

“How can you say that?” Hermione demands. “After we’ve just found out that there are real prophecies?”

I watch as Harry’s face blanches of all color, and I know instantly that he’s not telling us the whole truth regarding the prophecy.

“It is a pity it broke,” says Hermione quietly, shaking her head.

“Yeah, it is,” says Ron. “Still, at least You-Know-Who never found out what was in it either — where are you going?” he adds, looking both surprised and disappointed as Harry stands up.

“Er — Hagrid’s,” says Harry. “You know, he just got back and I promised I’d go down and see him and tell him how you three are . . .”

“Oh all right then,” saiys Ron grumpily, looking out of the dormitory window at the patch of bright blue sky beyond. “Wish we could come . . .”

“Say hello to him for us!” calls Hermione, as Harry proceeds down the ward. “And ask him what’s happening about . . . about his little friend!”

I look outside the window as well wishing that I could be out and about instead of cooped up in here recuperating as well. I feel a slight squeeze of my hand and glance at Ariana. She gives me a wide smile, and I can’t help but smile back.

“Oh you too are so sappy, I think I’m going to be sick!” Ginny moans, and I kick her again.

“You’ll have to start learning some more tact Ginny unless you want to end up black and blue.” Hermione points out, and I can hear Ron snickering from her other side. “Same goes for you.” She tells him. When I look up, I note with some disappointment that my brother has left us as well. 

* * *

 

Ron, Hermione, and I leave the hospital wing completely cured three days before the end of term. Hermione shows signs of wanting to talk about Sirius and his death, but Ron tends to make hushing noises every time she mentions his name. I can’t say that the guy and I were the best of friends but he was a good man, that I do know. I can tell that Harry’s mood has seriously deflated now. Good thing is that Professor McGonagall is back and she awarded fifty points for each one of us for bringing out the truth that Voldemort is back, so that’s 300 points for Gryffindor, 100 for Ravenclaw, and fifty for Hufflepuff.

It felt good to have something small added back even after all this.

Professor Umbridge leaves Hogwarts the day before the end of term. It seems that she crept out of the hospital wing during dinnertime, evidently hoping to depart undetected, but unfortunately for her, she met Peeves on the way, who seized his last chance to do as Fred had instructed and chases her gleefully from the premises, whacking her alternately with a walking stick and a sock full of chalk. Many students run out into the entrance hall to watch her running away down the path, and the Heads of Houses try only halfheartedly to restrain their pupils. Indeed, Professor McGonagall sinks back into her chair at the staff table after a few feeble remonstrances and is clearly heard to express a regret that she cannot not run cheering after Umbridge herself, because Peeves has borrowed her walking stick.

Our last evening at school arrives; most people have finished packing and are already heading down to the end-of-term feast. The night is nice but Harry doesn’t show up, so that leaves me worried about how he’s really doing the whole time.

The journey home on the Hogwarts Express next day is eventful in several ways. Firstly, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who have clearly been waiting all week for the opportunity to strike without teacher witnesses, attempts to ambush Harry halfway down the train as he makes his way back from the toilet. The attack might have succeeded had it not been for the fact that they unwittingly chose to stage the attack right outside a compartment full of D.A. members, who see what is happening through the glass and rise as one to rush to Harry’s aid. By the time Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Anthony Goldstein, and Terry Boot have finished using a wide variety of the hexes and jinxes Harry taught them, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle resemble nothing so much as three gigantic slugs squeezed into Hogwarts uniforms as Harry, Ernie, and Justin hoist them into the luggage rack and leave them there to ooze.

“I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing Malfoy’s mother’s face when he gets off the train,” says Ernie with some satisfaction, as he watches Malfoy squirm above him. Ernie has never quite got over the indignity of Malfoy docking points from Hufflepuff during his brief spell as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad.

“Goyle’s mum’ll be really pleased, though,” says Ron, as he and I came to investigate the source of the commotion. “He’s loads better-looking now. . . . Anyway, Harry, the food trolley’s just stopped if you want anything . . .”

“Yeah I think we’ve had quite enough of these slugs for one year.” I tell him grabbing his arm and leading my friend back to the compartment.

Harry thanks the others as he follows Ron and me back to our compartment, where he buys a large pile of Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkin Pasties. Hermione is reading the Daily Prophet again, Ginny is doing a quiz in The Quibbler, and Neville is stroking his Mimbulus mimbletonia, which has grown a great deal over the year and now makes odd crooning noises when touched. I sink back down in my seat next to Ariana who is reading a book, and rest my head against her shoulder. Even though my wound is all healed and gone, I still get tired really easily. She smiles at me before returning to her book. We haven’t had the chance to talk much about what we are and where we’re going but its just nice to just be together.

Harry and Ron while away most of the journey playing wizard chess while Hermione reads out snippets from the Prophet, and I take out my sketchbook to capture the scene. The Prophet is now full of articles about how to repel dementors, attempts by the Ministry to track down Death Eaters, and hysterical letters claiming that the writer has seen Lord Voldemort walking past their house that very morning. . . .

“It hasn’t really started yet,” sighs Hermione gloomily, folding up the newspaper again. “But it won’t be long now . . .”

“Hey, Harry,” says Ron, nodding towards the glass window onto the corridor.

I look around. Cho is passing, accompanied by Marietta Edgecombe, who is wearing a balaclava. Harry and Cho’s eyes meet for a moment. Cho blushes and keeps walking. Harry looks back down at the chessboard just in time to see one of his pawns chased off its square by Ron’s knight.

“What’s — er — going on with you and her anyway?” Ron asks quietly.

“Nothing,” says Harry truthfully.

“I — er — heard she’s going out with someone else now,” says Hermione tentatively.

“Yeah sorry Harry.” I say sadly. Harry glances up at me to see me still leaning into Ariana. I’m happy and surprised at how well everyone is taking my being close to her, I mean its not everyday that you see two girls liking each other the way that Ariana and I do, but they’re all really supportive of it, which makes me relieved.

“You’re well out of it, mate,” says Ron forcefully. “I mean, she’s quite good-looking and all that, but you want someone a bit more cheerful.”

“She’s probably cheerful enough with someone else,” says Harry, shrugging.

“Who’s she with now anyway?” Ron asks Hermione, but it is Ginny who answers.

“Michael Corner,” she says.

“Michael — but —” says Ron, craning around in his seat to stare at her. “But you were going out with him!”

Oh this is going to be interesting.

“Not anymore,” says Ginny resolutely. “He didn’t like Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw at Quidditch and got really sulky, so I ditched him and he ran off to comfort Cho instead.” She scratches her nose absently with the end of her quill, turns The Quibbler upside down, and begins marking her answers. Ron looks highly delighted.

“Well, I always thought he was a bit of an idiot,” he says, prodding his queen forward towards Harry’s quivering castle. “Good for you. Just choose someone — better — next time.”

He casts Harry an oddly furtive look as he says it and I have to disguise my chuckle as a cough. Ariana absentmindedly rubs my back soothingly as I attempt to regain control.

“Well, I’ve chosen Dean Thomas, would you say he’s better?” asks Ginny vaguely. I grin having already known this for quite some time. Ariana finally puts down her book, greatly amused by what’s going on as well.

“WHAT?” shouts Ron, upending the chessboard. Crookshanks goes plunging after the pieces and Hedwig, Dionysus, Pigwidgeon, and little Avalon, Pip, and Scribbles twitter and hoot angrily from overhead.

As the train slows down in the approach to King’s Cross, I think about how long and how fast this year went by. When it finally puffs to a standstill, however, I lift down Di’s cage and prepare to drag my trunk from the train as usual. I have to say goodbye to Hermione at the platform though for she is going to be going home to spend some time wither grandfather before he gets busy again. I’m more than a little happy by the kiss I receive.

When the ticket inspector signals to us that it is safe to walk through the magical barrier between platforms nine and ten, however, I find a surprise awaiting us on the other side: a group of people standing there to greet us whom I had not expected at all.

There was Mad-Eye Moody, looking quite as sinister with his bowler hat pulled low over his magical eye as he would have done without it, his gnarled hands clutching a long staff, his body wrapped in a voluminous traveling cloak. Tonks stands just behind him, her bright bubble-gum-pink hair gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the dirty glass station ceiling, wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright purple T-shirt bearing the legend THE WEIRD SISTERS. Next to Tonks is Lupin, his face pale, his hair graying, a long and threadbare overcoat covering a shabby jumper and trousers. At the front of the group stands Arthur and Molly, dressed in their Muggle best, and Fred and George, who are both wearing brand-new jackets in some lurid green, scaly material.

I feel a large smile break out onto my face.

“Ron, Luka, Jamie, Ginny!” calls Molly, hurrying forward and hugging all of her children tightly. I feel the air be squeezed out of me, as Molly checks me over as if she doesn’t quite believe that I’m cured. “Oh, and Harry dear — how are you?”

“Fine,” says Harry, as she pulls him into a tight embrace after leaving me. I decide to ogle with Ron at the twins’ new clothes.

“What are they supposed to be?” he asks, pointing at the jackets.

“Finest dragon skin, little bro,” says Fred, giving his zip a little tweak. “Business is booming and we thought we’d treat ourselves.”

“Well you look dashing as always.” I say with a grin. I can’t help but laugh at the little half bows they give me before pulling me into a hug.

“Hello, Harry,” says Lupin, as Molly lets go of Harry and turns to greet Hermione.

“Hi,” says Harry. “I didn’t expect . . . what are you all doing here?”

“Well,” says Lupin with a slight smile, “we thought we might have a little chat with your aunt and uncle before letting them take you home.”

“I dunno if that’s a good idea,” says Harry at once.

“Oh, I think it is,” growls Moody, who has limped a little closer. “That’ll be them, will it, Potter?”

I slowly join my siblings as we gather to watch what is about to happen.

Mad-Eye points with his thumb over his shoulder; his magical eye is evidently peering through the back of his head and his bowler hat. I lean an inch or so to the left to see where Mad-Eye is pointing and there, sure enough, are the three Dursleys, who look positively appalled to see Harry’s reception committee.

“Ah, Harry!” says Arthur, turning from Hermione’s parents, whom he was greeting enthusiastically, and who are taking it in turns to hug Hermione. “Well — shall we do it, then?”

“Yeah, I reckon so, Arthur,” says Moody.

He and Arthur take the lead across the station towards the place where the Dursleys stand, apparently rooted to the floor. Hermione disengages herself gently from her mother to join the group.

“Good afternoon,” says Arthur pleasantly to Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt right in front of him. “You might remember me, my name’s Arthur Weasley.”

They should because Arthur did demolish their living room before.

“We thought we’d just have a few words with you about Harry,” says Arthur, still smiling.

“Yeah,” growls Moody. “About how he’s treated when he’s at your place.”

Harry’s Uncle Vernon seems to not be liking where this conversation is going.

“I am not aware that it is any of your business what goes on in my house —”

“I expect what you’re not aware of would fill several books, Dursley,” growls Moody.

Oh I really love this guy right about now.

   “Anyway, that’s not the point,” interjects Tonks, whose pink hair seems to offend Harry’s Aunt Petunia more than all the rest put together, for she closes her eyes rather than look at her. “The point is, if we find out you’ve been horrible to Harry —”

“— and make no mistake, we’ll hear about it,” adds Lupin pleasantly.

“Yes,” says Arthur, “even if you won’t let Harry use the fellytone —”

“Telephone,” whispers Hermione.

“Yeah, if we get any hint that Potter’s been mistreated in any way, you’ll have us to answer to,” says Moody.

Harry’s Uncle Vernon swells ominously. His sense of outrage seems to outweigh even his fear of this bunch of oddballs.

“Are you threatening me, sir?” he says, so loudly that passersby actually turn to stare.

“Yes, I am,” says Mad-Eye, who seems rather pleased that the man grasped this fact so quickly.

“And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?” barks Uncle Vernon.

“Well . . .” says Moody, pushing back his bowler hat to reveal his sinisterly revolving magical eye. The large man leaps backwards in horror and collides painfully with a luggage trolley. “Yes, I’d have to say you do, Dursley.”

He turns from Harry’s Uncle Vernon to Harry. “So, Potter . . . give us a shout if you need us. If we don’t hear from you for three days in a row, we’ll send someone along . . .”

“’Bye, then, Potter,” says Moody, grasping Harry’s shoulder for a moment with a gnarled hand.

“Take care, Harry,” says Lupin quietly. “Keep in touch.”

“Harry, we’ll have you away from there as soon as we can,” Molly whispers, hugging him again.

“We’ll see you soon, mate,” says Ron anxiously, shaking Harry’s hand.

“Really soon, Harry,” says Hermione earnestly. “We promise.”

“And don’t forget with the toad gone, we no longer have lifelong bans from Quidditch! So there’s something to look forward to Potter!” I say with a grin. Harry smiles back at me happily for that before turning to follow the Dursleys. We all stand there in silence for a moment before Molly turns on Ron, Ginny, Luka, and me.

“So what exactly was going through those minds of yours when you decided to flee school, fly to London, and break into the Ministry just to get attacked and seriously injured!” She’s practically yelling at this point and making a huge scene. The four of us are pale and exchange frightened looks, while Fred and George merely laugh for they’re not the ones in trouble for once.

Arthur is trying to get Molly to calm down, and I can see that its going to take a while for her to be in any shape to have a rational discussion with us. Oh well, it looks like the beginning of summer for us is going to be quite the bumpy ride. I look around me at the large family surrounding me, and I can’t help but let a smile come onto my face. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here, even if the world is beginning to fall apart around us.

 

The End

(For now…)


End file.
